Druid of Holly and Yew
by Team Otters
Summary: Instead of attending Hogwarts, Harry Potter was taken as an apprentice by a druid who taught him a more archaic form of magic. Now fully trained in the mystic arts of water and wood, he comes out of isolation to rejoin magical society and wage guerrilla warfare against Voldemort through ritual magic and alliances with the fae creatures of ancient Britain.
1. Chapter 1

A/n: I hadn't originally planned on uploading this, but seeing as it keeps getting plagiarised and posted anyway, I suppose I had better. I'll take the relentless theft as a compliment. Thanks to the crew of the good ship #write for the motivation to put pen to paper on this one, especially to my boys Zombie and Halt. I'll have a drink in your honour tonight. And then a second drink just for me. For anyone interested, the cover art here is Matt Miller's Journeying Spirit Deer. I have a print of it on my wall. His artwork is fabulous.

 _There is a wand in a hand which is black with rot._

 _A tree in a forest which is black with rot._

 _A wand made from its wood, made black from rot._

There were no travellers this deep in the forest. A fell shadow has lingered over the trees for nine hundred years, driving away human encroachment. The only signs of mankind were scarce and scattered; the foundation stones of a water mill which had long fallen into disrepair and been swallowed up by the trees, the great iron wheel having rolled away to collapse on its side, caving in one side of the only bridge which crossed this span of the river.

He watched the bridge for a time, standing in a broad patch of weeds which must have once been the village square. Dark shapes flitted between the trees on the far bank of the river. The glint of moonlight on amber eyes was the only sign of colour.

This was the edge. Running water fed from a mountain stream cut straight across the outermost bounds of the curse. The magics of earth and sky were wild here, a leyline drawn above ground to follow the contours of the river from the peak to the sea. It would take the directed will of a wizard to push any malice past this natural barrier, and the curse had not been tended in over a decade. Even so, the unseen neighbouring enmity had driven away all former occupants of this ruined village.

A jewel-bright adder slithered across his boot. He stood there, waiting until the snake had passed on before stepping forwards.

Debris crunched under even his light footfalls. The adder hissed in alarm, and buried itself into the undergrowth.

As he left the safety of the bridge, his foot coming down on the distant bank, howls tore into the air. They were too raw, too angry to be ordinary wolves.

He had no choice now. This was their territory. It was too dark to trust his eyes, so he closed them altogether, trusting instinct and magic to steer him straight. He breathed deeply. The foulness in the air was not still; it moved to its own rhythm, dancing like the wind, but against its currents. He tensed. The howls were growing closer now.

Exhaling suddenly, he broke into a sprint. His eyes were still closed, but the arcane craft woven into his task this night would not let him stumble. Tree roots and leaves made for an uneven surface, occasionally broken up by wide paving slabs; a remnant of whatever forest path had been laid here over a thousand years ago.

The wetness of the foliage underfoot made it difficult to keep a solid purchase on the ground, but every time he slipped it only added momentum to his sprint. With his goal so close the only thing which could make him fall would be if he tried to stop.

The hot huff of breath signaled the approach of the werewolves. With his scent so near, they would not waste breath on howling. The next thing he would hear from them would be his own screams as they tore into his back.

There was no more time. And yet, he had not reached his destination.

He dove to one side.

The werewolf crashed through the empty air a moment later, a slavering mass of rage and hunger. It struck a tree headfirst, and rage replaced hunger as its sole driving force. The beast tore at the trunk of the tree with its claws, letting out a scream of fury, before turning back to the chase.

But that one moment was enough.

He opened his eyes again, feeling the guiding tug of ambient magic around him rise to a crescendo.

A yew tree stood before him, standing somewhat apart from all the surrounding trees. The earth at its base was dark and oily. The trees nearest to the yew were all sickly and deformed.

This was what he had come here for.

Ignoring the werewolf which was even now catching up, he drew a wooden dagger out from the inside pocket of his robes. Carved from mistletoe and enchanted on a moonless night, he had carried it for a year and a day until the magic within had matured.

The runes drawn alongside the blade began to glow, and then a sharp, acrid scent filled the air as the markings ruptured into blue fire. He drew the dagger up high, and then forced it into the trunk of the yew tree.

The bark split like the skin of an overripe fruit, sending rancid sap spurting outwards. He ignored the sting as it ate away at the exposed flesh of his hand, and pulled the dagger in a long line across the circumference of the trunk. The same blue fire burst out wherever the dagger's blade went, drawing an incandescent ring around the tree.

At the sight of the unnatural flames, the werewolf vanished into the trees.

When the circle was complete, the flames roared higher, sending spots flashing before his eyes. Sparks shot out from the tree, and the putrid, oily sap hissed as it burned. The furthest branches of the nearest tree were in the path of the flame, but it passed through them as if they were immaterial, burning only the yew.

Over time, the flames calmed, retreating back down to the original circle with only dead wood left behind. Eventually there was just a narrow band of blue light encircling the tree like a slender chain.

"The root of the wand is the tree," he murmured, tones heavy with the cadence of ritual. "And the root of the wizard is the wand."

He reached back into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out the broken halves of a wand. A red-gold phoenix feather could be seen from between splinters of holly. He placed them reverently at the foot of the yew, and then stepped back.

"First," said Harry Potter. "I took your wand. And then I'm going to take your magic. And then I'm going to take your life." He looked up at the sky. Smoke coiled languidly in the sky above him, blocking out all the light of the stars.

 **Chapter One**

The mushroom, smooth and corpulent, lay on its side at the bottom of the basket. It was the last one, as big as a baby's head and almost the same colour, for all that it appeared to have been caved in on one side.

Harry picked it up, and sniffed deeply. A sweet pine aroma filled his nostrils, and as he breathed the colours of the world began to deepen. The edges of reds and purples broaden and stretched into shades normally unseen.

And then he exhaled.

"That's disgusting," he said, dropping the mushroom back in the basket.

A filthy hand darted out of the shadows, snatching the basket back. The skin was mottled with red and grey, every bit of it covered in that unclean marbling save for the green swell of a boil where the thumb and forefinger met.

"Fresh, that is!" screeched the figure lurking on the other side of the counter. It wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled up over its head despite the awning overhead casting half the street into shadow. In the depths of the stall two un-candles burned away what was left of the light.

"You promised it was picked fresh by a hag," accused Harry. "It should have turned rancid the moment her hands touched it. Where are the blue scales, the shimmer-rot, the toxic spores? What could I possibly do without any toxic spores?"

The creature shrieked, startling nearby patrons of the other stalls set up in the impromptu market of Knockturn Alley. An unshaven man nearby with several missing teeth shivered, and pulled his cloak closer around himself despite the summer sun overhead.

"I picked it, I did!" the creature said. "Fresh two nights gone! Scrabbled through thorns and muck!" It hissed through its teeth, stepping forwards to lean over the countertop.

Harry sighed.

"Yeah, but you're not a hag. You're just a very ugly woman."

She swiped a hand under the counter, fingers curled inwards like a claw, and then pulled out a short, stubby twig of a wand which looked as if she'd made it herself. The tip of the wand flared with red light.

Harry's hair rustled in a momentary breeze, and then settled back down.

"See, you're just proving my point. What kind of self-respecting hag uses a wand?" he asked rhetorically. She gestured with the wand again, cursing loudly as she did so, and once more nothing happened.

"I'll give you a hint," said Harry. "The Disarming Charm works best on somebody who is actually armed."

The hooded woman spat in his face, cutting him off. He blinked, and brought a hand up to touch his cheek. It came away covered in a thick, sticky mucus. His skin began to itch where it had landed.

Harry looked at his fingers. They were beginning to swell, his fingertips already having changed to a desiccated umber colour.

"Ah," he said faintly. "Maybe just half of a very ugly woman. Could I trouble you to introduce me to your mother?"

A little while later, Harry had successfully navigated the winding streets to the address marked down for him on a scrap of parchment by the reluctant woman. He found himself on a terrace of narrow Victorian townhouse looked much like any other on the street, but every window was decorated with wide-bottomed flower boxes. Ivy ran up the face of the house on a loose trellis, covering almost half its surface in greenery. Chipped pots of painted-leaf begonias stood at either side of the doorstep.

Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the orange hues of street lights only added to the colours of sunset.

Behind the flowers, Harry could see the whitewashed silhouette of heavy wooden shutters. He checked the house number again. Three hundred and thirty-three. Three threes. This must be it. He crumpled up the piece of parchment he'd scrawled down the directions on, and absently dropped it on the floor.

As it fell, a gentle breeze picked up, pushing it along the street. As it moved across the pavement a crisp packet was caught in its wake and pulled along. A metre or so later, a cigarette butt joined them, circling in a gentle orbit of the parchment.

By the time they reached the end of the street some gum had unsealed itself from the paving stones to join the litter together into a sticky ball. It impacted against the outside of a black rubbish bag which lay at the foot of an overfilled green bin, and it stuck fast to it. This whole time, the breeze had never risen above the height of Harry's ankles.

He raised his hand, and knocked upon the door three times.

The door cracked open. The smell of fresh bread baking and warm spices - cinnamon and nutmeg - flooded out into the street.

"Oh! My Tulip mentioned that you might be stopping by," exclaimed a woman from inside. Her voice had a rich West Country burr to it. She tugged on the door, but the latch chain pulled tight, and it caught with a heavy thud. The woman clucked her tongue, and pushed the door back closed again. "Hold on a moment, love, where's that catch gotten to?"

The door clicked shut, and then again as the woman hauled the door open. Illuminated by the door, she had a stout frame topped with brown curls which were only just beginning to fade to gray at the roots. Her skin was creased the the laughter lines of somebody who like to smile, but not with the wrinkles which came with age.

"Well isn't that lovely of our Tulip, sending gentlemen callers to her dear old mother. Such a pretty girl should be keeping them all to herself. Don't just stand there," she said, tutting in mock disapproval. "Come in, come in!"

She dusted her hands on the least frilly part of her apron, cleaning off just part of the flour which clung to them, and grabbed hold of Harry's arm. The flour felt as coarse and gritty against his bare skin as if she was wearing sandpaper gloves.

All of the furniture was lovingly made from wood and gleamed with fresh polish. Harry couldn't see a spot of dust on any surface, but there were scuffs and spots of wear on all the furniture, showing heavy signs of use despite their cleanliness.

There was a single pair of shoes tucked underneath the cabinet at the door, and a single black umbrella leaning beside it.

"I confess, Mrs Guinevere" said Harry slowly, allowing her to lead him to a seat at the kitchen table. "You're not at all what I was expecting."

The kitchen was open and brightly lit. The table was a square large enough to seat three on every side, and partially covered by a pristine white cloth. Incandescent bulbs sat in sconces on every wall, lighting the room brighter than Knockturn Alley had been even in the middle of the day.

"Was that girl of mine telling stories again?" She laughed loudly, her voice both clear and delighted.

"Not at all," said Harry. "I may have made a few assumptions on my own."

"Now, then. Let's us clear some of them up for you, shall we?" She put her hands on her hips, giving Harry a stern look. "I'm to be called Gwen, not Mrs Guinevere."

Harry smiled, and nodded in agreement.

"And my name is Harry, if your daughter didn't mention that as well." He paused, and held up the paper bag which he'd been carrying around. "I know a guest is supposed to bring wine," he said apologetically. "But I brought tea from my garden instead."

Gwen snatched it quickly out of his hand.

"Oh how lovely!" she cried. "I always have the kettle ready for a good cup, don't you know. Here, take one of my biscuits," she said, shoving a large copper bowl across the table to him. It looked to have been a fruit bowl, once, repurposed to a gigantic heap of treats. "You have as many of these as you like, love, and I'll take care of the tea."

Harry picked a biscuit from the top of the pile. It was wide and fat, nearly the size of an open hand and as thick as the meat of his thumb. He turned it over, inspecting both sides. The dark shapes of chocolate drops could just about be seen hidden under the surface.

The kettle must have been boiled recently, because it was only a moment later that Gwen set down a steaming mug in front of him. She cupped hers in both hands, and lifted it level with her chin, breathing deeply.

"Go on, then," she urged. "Try a biscuit."

"Alright," agreed Harry. "I will so long as you try my tea."

She nodded her head in agreement and made a soft noise of amusement, holding the cup to her lips.

Harry took a bite. The outside was crunchy almost to the point of being hard, but on the inside his teeth closed on something softer which swelled and burst when he put pressure on it, sending a spurt of tangy liquid into his mouth. He swallowed, and licked the crumbs from his lips.

"Is this oatmeal and raisin?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned forward and whispered. "That's actually my favourite."

Gwen placed her mug back down on the table, its contents untouched.

Something wriggled between Harry's fingertips. He looked down out of reflex.

It was not a biscuit.

Seven legs waved furiously in the air around a fat, hairy body. The spider squirmed in an attempt to free itself, but could get no purchase in the air to move out of Harry's suddenly tightening grip. He let it go, and as soon as it struck the ground it scuttled away, unhindered by its missing leg or even the bite taken out of its abdomen.

The bowl writhed with a dozen more, each the size of a human fist, and as he gazed at it Harry saw that none of the sconces on the walls were lit; the spiders were illuminated only by a sputtering candle in the centre of the table.

"Do you think you can trick a hag with poison?" hissed Gwen. Her face was unchanged in shape, but her expression had taken on a sallow cast, pulling the lines of her face into a cruel mockery of a smile.

She stood up, and took three steps to the kitchen counter where a block of knives lay. Her fingers danced across the handles, and she chanted aloud in a sing-song voice.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, and…" she reached up, away from the kitchen knives to where a tarnished meat cleaver hung from a hook. "..and mo," she finished, crooning at the knife as if she was cradling a child.

"I could smell that vile concoction before a drop passed my lips, wizard," she said, taking eager steps towards him.

Harry cleared his throat when she was just a pace away.

"Well," he said. "I'm not a wizard."

Gwen snorted in derision, and motioned to lift the cleaver above her head. She let out another laugh, this time shrill and painful to hear, but then flinched suddenly. She coughed. Even wrapped around the handle of the cleaver, her fingers began to shake uncontrollably.

It struck the tiles with a deafening clang.

"And," continued Harry. "This poison is supposed to be inhaled."

The hag screamed as Harry tugged on the loose loop of cord he had draped around her neck, and then she stumbled forwards.

"I'll eat your eyes!" she shrieked. "The eyes of your children, and your children's children for a hundred generations!" She screamed again, even louder. A cat sitting atop a wall on the other end of the street vanished through an open window.

Although it was growing very late, there were still a few people walking past on the street outside. None of them looked at what was happening here, just outside Gwen's home. A few signs of the struggle left a trail behind them; the door scuffed and jammed ajar with her umbrella, and one of her begonias lay on its side in the remnants of a smashed pot.

Harry yanked on the cord. The hag fell to the ground, landing heavily on her knees.

She wailed pitifully, clawing at the cord. Although it was only a few strands of thread loosely woven together, it would not break. Gwen's wails continued for a little time, and then she lunged forwards to clutch at the coat of another woman as she passed by.

The other woman absently stepped to one side, not even turning her head to acknowledge Gwen, and walked on without breaking her stride.

"They can't see you," said Harry. "Get up. We're not going far, but I'd rather not drag you all the way."

"Your children's eyes!" said Gwen with another wail, but she stood up nonetheless.

Only a few minutes of walking later, and they were in a park sparsely filled with trees. An asphalt path cut a winding ribbon across the centre of the park. The path was the only lit part of this park.

Harry stepped off the path, Gwen following wordlessly in his footsteps. His lips moved slightly as he counted the trees he passed.

"Here we are," he said quietly to himself. "Twelve trees in, ten paces across." He turned his head, casting about in the shadows until he spotted three trees standing close together. One of the trees had branches hanging low with growths of mistletoe. "And here we are, at the junction of oak, and elm, and mistletoe." As he said the name of each tree, he touched its trunk.

He sat down on the ground, motioning for Gwen to do the same, and took out a drawstring bag.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked. "I bought it from your daughter. Bloatwort mushrooms."

Harry upended the bag, tipping out a fine black powder onto his palm.

"I don't object to her pretending a real hag picked them to add some silver to the price. None of the shopkeepers in Knockturn have ever told a customer the whole truth." He placed his hand, palm down, onto the earth in front of him, pressing the black dust into the ground. "But I needed real hagbloat."

Harry leaned forwards and blew gently on the mushroom spores he'd collected earlier from the useless bloatwort caps. They swelled up in uneven lumps, a blue-green discolouration spreading across the surface as the mushrooms grew. Within seconds, there was a patch of a dozen mushrooms lying in the crook of the tree roots, each one bigger than Harry's closed fist.

"I don't know if you've realised which poison I used yet," Harry said, his mouth twisting upwards into something which wasn't quite a smile. "I'll give you a hint. The key ingredient for the antidote is growing right in front of you."

He stood suddenly, and shoved Gwen forwards with the sole of his foot pressed onto her back.

"Go on," he said. "Pick up your cure."

The next day Harry found himself in one of England's quintessentially grim market towns, in a store as devoid of personality as the shoppers within. Fluorescent tubes sputtered over a display stand of pot pourri which stretched from the Back to School racks of blazers to the shelves of panini presses. Shoppers carried baskets around the store with one hand with their children in the other.

One particularly snotty child was wiping a bogey onto a stack of neatly folded tablecloths. When nobody was looking, Harry gave him a kick.

The store was crowded enough that nobody even turned to look at the child's sudden yelp, and Harry slipped further into the aisles of kitchenware.

Right at the back of the store, a section of wall opened into a nook the size of a cupboard. It had been partitioned off by a small length of red rope, and a brass plaque was fixed to the wall beside it. On the other side of the rope lay a crumbling well made of old stone, covered in a canopy of red tiles. Only a few were missing, but almost all were scuffed and chipped.

 _The Humberton Wishing Well - 1467_

 _Found on this site during a planned expansion of Dalton & Francis Ltd, this wishing well is thought to date back to when the Dalton Department Store was still a functioning mill. To preserve the architectural heritage of our family-run business, we've decided to keep this little piece of history open for everyone to see!_

 _Please don't throw anything in the well!_

Harry glanced over the plate, fighting off a laugh as he read the last line. He unhooked the rope and squeezed into the nook beside the well.

He reached up his sleeve, fingers scrabbling for purchase until he found a knot, and then began to unwind a long, thin piece of homemade cord; the same one he'd used to bind the hag Gwen only a day before. Around his neck he had a similar looking cord, but this one was much smaller - just the length of a single loop around his neck. A weathered rock hung against his breastbone from this crude necklace, the cord passing through a hole in its centre.

In a series of short, deft motions Harry fastened the two cords together until the rock was secured to the end of the longer piece, and gave it a few experimental swings in the air. He paused when he felt it move slightly, and re-tied the knots.

Once the rock was held fast in place, he leaned forwards over the open mouth of the well and dropped it down.

A faint metallic clink echoed back up the shaft.

"Hey!"

Harry looked out into the aisles. A staff member in a red polo shirt was walking up to him; a young woman with a nose stud and dark bags under her eyes. He yanked on the cord hard, pulling it hand over hand to bring it up faster.

"You can't be back there. What are you -" she paused as she came closer, taking in the scene in front of her. She snorted with a burst of repressed laughter. "Are you fishing?" she asked, voice high with incredulity.

With one final tug, Harry pulled his rock back up, catching it one-handed. Mottled coins, tarnished green and black, adhered to its surface. He plucked two off, and swept the rest back into the well with a brush of his fingers.

One of the coins disappeared into Harry's pocket. He flicked the other towards the girl, and she snatched it out of the air.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

"I'm grateful that you're such a cheap bribe," said Harry dryly, picking crumbs of tortilla chips off the surface of the table and flicking them back onto the plate.

"Oh please," said Natalie. "I wouldn't have grassed you up anyway. I skipped lunch today, though. So, nachos."

Harry knew her name was Natalie because it was emblazoned on a name tag pinned to the ugly cardigan which made up half of the store's uniform, together with a red polo shirt. She had tossed it on the table as soon as they had taken their seats.. It had a faint dusting of nacho crumbs.

"You sure you don't want any?" she asked him. "You did buy them, after all." She ran a hand through her hair. Her hair had been cropped closely on one side of her head, making a prominent display of yellow appear where nacho debris caught on the shorter patch.

"No," replied Harry. "I can't say that this is the kind of food I usually make." He prodded at a lump on the plate where two squares of cheese singles had melted into one another, the seam covered by grey beef mince.

"What, are you a vegetarian or something?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Harry paused.

"Or something. I suppose I only eat meat when it's a full moon," he said.

"So," said Natalie, leaning forwards. "Are you going to tell me why you were fishing for old-timey small change in the back of the shop?"

"I needed a wish," said Harry. He took out the old coin he'd pocketed earlier, and spun it on the tabletop. It was bent out of shape, and had barely been a passable attempt at a circle beforehand, so it careened wildly on its side for a moment and then fell over. Harry frowned at it. "A shooting star would have been best. They gather up the wishes of everyone who sees them as they pass through the stratosphere and compress them tight together. You can get thousands of wishes in a rock this size of your fist."

He set the coin spinning again. This time it fell over even faster, and he grimaced once more.

"It's a right bastard finding where the rock fell, though," he said.

Natalie snorted, eyes bright with mirth. The corners of her lips tugged upwards as she struggled to keep a serious expression.

"So there's a wish in this old penny?" she asked. "Is just one wish enough?"

Harry nodded.

"It's just a token," he said. "Even the single smallest wish in the world would do. In fact," he said, pausing to squint closer at the patina of grime on the disc of metal lying on the tabletop. "This is probably the pettiest wish I've ever seen."

"Well you can't say that and not follow through," urged Natalie. "What's the wish for?

"This coin was thrown by a man who married a muggle. He wished that the Statute of Secrecy would be lifted so he could tell his wife who he really was."

Natalie blinked in confusion.

"What's the Statute of Secrecy?" she asked.

"It's a law. You're going to help me break it. Magic is real."

"You still haven't shown me any magic tricks!" complained Natalie, only a couple of hours later.

They had moved to a local pub after she had finished her plate of nachos, and a number of empty pint glasses covered the tabletop. Harry drummed his fingers on the surface, regretting it only a moment later when his fingertips were caught in a smear of something unknowable and sticky.

"I told you," he said. "I'm not some two-bit charlatan with a deck of cards up my sleeve."

"Oh, I'm onto you, Potter. Do you think you're the first person to try making my clothes disappear by offering to show me the art of prestidigitation?" She snorted back a laugh, and took a long pull from her drink.

She swung her leg, tapping her knee against Harry's thigh meaningfully.

"I could be into it," she said. "But pull a coin out of a girl's ear or something, would you?."

Harry laughed, and then began to stand, gathering up some of their glasses.

"Alright," he said. "One more drink, and then we can find somewhere suitable for me to show you a piece of my magic."

Natalie slid the dregs of her pint across to him. Harry juggled the other glasses into the crook of his elbow, and managed to grasp the final glass between his thumb and forefinger. He paused for a moment, one leg still trapped between the table and the bench he'd been sitting on.

"What was it you ordered, again?" he asked.

"Doom Bar," she replied. Harry nodded, and managed to twist his leg out from the table without dropping any of the glasses.

"Isn't that auspicious?" he muttered to himself as he walked away.

Almost an hour had passed by the time they finally left the pub. Harry had suggested that they take a walk to clear their heads, and so they had strolled down towards the harbourside.

It was only early evening, but there were few other pedestrians on the street. The illuminated signs of shops and bars were just beginning to stand out prominently in the dimmer light. Over towards the waterfront, where lights were less frequent, an orange glow could be seen behind the thin curtains of several houseboats.

Natalie crossed the cobbles to the very edge of the water, held back only by a low rope half a foot from the ground, strung between metal posts which had been painted black. She stared out over the water for a long moment, with Harry close behind her.

Their conversation had tapered off, and now they were just quietly enjoying one another's company. Hesitantly, Harry reached forwards, placing a hand on her upper arm.

At the touch, Natalie spun around wearing a mischievous grin, and pulled Harry forwards into a kiss.

Her lips lingered on Harry's for a long moment. He savoured it for a short amount of time, and then placed a hand on her sternum. He could feel her heartbeat quicken under his palm. She moved a fraction away, letting out a started gasp.

"Was that your card?" she whispered, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"No."

Harry shoved her away, putting enough force behind the movement that she fell backwards over the narrow lip of the walkway. The back of her ankle caught against a low-lying metal bollard, but it wasn't enough to halt her fall.

She tumbled down towards the murky water. It rose up to meet her, a shape forming out of the water. The indistinct outline of a head appeared first, rising higher above a long body dripping with fronds of green and purple kelp. The water which made up the head coalesced into teeth like glaciers in miniature which closed around Natalie.

The creature dove, dragging her down beneath the surface. Bubbles flared from within the water for only a moment, and then an unnatural calm stilled all motion from within. The moon moved out from behind a cloud, and briefly Harry could see clear through to the silt base of the harbour.

There was nothing there.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: No author's note necessary_

xXxXxXxX

Harry took off his boots, and jumped down into the water. It came up to his waist; a freezing belt knocking the wind out of him like a physical blow to the gut. Sharp stones and broken twigs bit into the undersides of his feet. He flexed his toes, and took a deep breath.

And ducked his head beneath the surface.

And stood up in the middle of a lake. No, not a lake, Harry realised as he took in his surroundings. This was a loch; he had followed the creature clear through the water to Scotland.

The loch was ringed around by shallow, sweeping hills bedecked in purple gorse. The stars shone bright without the pollution of city lights to block them out, and there were almost no signs of human habitation; a rotting wooden jetty nearby, and then a small stone cottage some miles distant.

Silence was the wrong word, for all that the sounds of traffic and people were gone. Rather, the subtler sounds of the night breeze combing through grass and water folding over itself had taken on a richer tone.

Harry breathed deeply, savouring the night air. The earthy tang of peat was everywhere. A low mist curled in the air just above the surface of the loch. Some distance away, there was a splash.

Teeth were the first thing to form, icicles coalescing out of the mist. Weeds were drawn up from the lakebed next, the droplets of water cascading off them forming into the rough outline of an oversized horse's body.

The beast stood fully-formed in front of Harry within seconds, less than a dozen metres away. It had a kelp mane over blue-green hide, and rough-wrought iron hooks were fixed into its flesh in many places. The old wounds around the hooks had scabbed over for the most part, but dark blue ichor dribbled out of the one in its neck.

"Water horse," called out Harry. "I would know your name."

He held the old coin up, held between two fingers. Despite the grime on its surface, it gleamed in the moonlight.

The beast snorted, a jet of cold air rushing across the loch at its exhalation. It had no warmth in either its breath or body. Crystals of frost were beginning to form on the fronds of seaweed which made up its mane.

Harry flicked the coin high into the air. The creature leapt forward, a flash of teeth snatching the prize.

It landed heavily back in the water, sending a freezing wave strong enough to almost knock Harry off his feet. It strode forwards until its head was almost touching his.

"Faithless blood, broken wish, and I sense about you the promise of death to come," it intoned. "You know the proper forms, Finder. I am the water horse. I am the elder aughiskey. I am Each-Uisge. Behold."

xXxXxXxX

Each-Uisge snorted heavily, and clouds of frost curdled in the air between it and Harry. Harry held up a hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace, and then bowed to the creature.

It stared at him in silent for an unbearably long time.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, knowing that haste would do him no favours.

The ancient aughiskey pawed at the ground, shaking its mane of bulrushes, and, at long last spoke up.

"The magic of your kind is known to me, Finder," it declared. As it spoke, it stared intensely at Harry. Its eyes were distinctly inhuman, but also unlike any horse he had ever seen. They had sharp multi-faceted edges marked with hard flat planes, resembling the eyes of an insect carved out of grey crystal. "I have watched the Roman wizards as they took their place as rulers of these lands. The practices of your forebears were all but gone. And then you came. Wandless. Bloody. Hopeful. Wherefore have you sought me?"

"I seek a pact," said Harry. "The dead wands of a Roman wizard are not for me; I am a druid of the ancient path, and my magic will come through the bones of the hills."

"My price is beyond you, manling. You clutch at the trappings of your ancestors, unknowing. You have no smallfolk to perform the rites. No harvest to bless. No children to teach. No warriors to strengthen. A druid is many things, boy. He is among the leaders of his people. A teacher, healer, priest. He is never alone." The aughiskey loomed closer, a cruel leer stretching across its equine features. "Who are you, with no soul but his own?"

"If you join me," began Harry in measured tones. "We would be two."

"Faugh," growled the beast. "My power leaks freely from these damned wounds, lost to the sea with every move I make. There is little enough left. Scant left to spare, lest I spend my days cowering beneath the waves while you squander my gifts. No. Drown you, no. I will walk free atop the surf until the day of my death."

Harry cocked his head, and inspected the hooks hanging from the horse-like creature's flesh. He reached out to examine one, and pulled his hand back quickly when Each-Uisge snapped its teeth at him.

The cuts looked positively ancient, and a creature of such power as this would not have any trouble healing simple barbs in its flesh. Harry was certain that this must come from something deeper - a curse, perhaps, or some other taint in the iron.

"What if your wounds were no longer a problem?"

Each-Uisge stilled, suddenly, and the breeze around them whipped into a fury as it considered Harry's words.

"End this torment, and I will have power enough to spare," it said. "Tear down the house of my foe. The craft of his iron will end when the last of his line's blood is spilled upon the shore."

xXxXxXxX

The nearby village had since been subsumed by Inverness as a commuter town; the only real residents remaining were a handful of country folk who had passed the homes down in their families for generations. The other half of the houses left were inhabited by professionals for a year or two before they surrendered to the pressure to move closer to the city and the trappings of civilisation which came with it.

Harry had tried to begin his search for the elder aughiskey's enemy in the local legends, but none of the village's inhabitants seemed to have either the inclination or the ability to help, so he moved further afield.

It took days of searching through libraries and museums, but eventually Harry came across a promising lead.

In the very centre of Inverness, a low terrace of houses shone brightly; the white paint on chalk cob walls reflected the sun in full force. Timber frames had been added to the exterior of one particular section of the terrace, painted blue and decorated with a wrought iron sign in the shape of a cup and saucer.

A few trestle tables stood outside the cafe, loosely populated by tourists and tourists' bags.

Harry pushed the door open. A bell suspended above it chimed as he stepped over the threshold.

Inside the cafe, a series of rooms connected by narrow hallways formed the seating area. A narrow stairwell led to more space for customers upstairs. Thick timber beams coated liberally in black paint were spaced evenly throughout the chalk blocks which formed the walls. It looked as if several neighbouring houses had been knocked together to form the cafe.

At the front of the first room, a counter displayed handmade pastries dusted with icing sugar. Next to them, a wooden butcher's block was laden with sandwiches under upturned plastic containers. The fillings were uninspired, along the lines of ham, tuna mayo, and cheese and tomato - but they were held between thick cuts of homemade seed bread.

A blackboard on the wall listed prices and the special of the day. Harry ignored it, and stepped up to the counter.

"Excuse me," he began, attempting to get the attention of the staff. There was a bell on the countertop next to him. He eyed it surreptitiously, and then decided he would rather wait for a moment than sour the impression he made upon someone by hammering away at the bell impatiently.

"Sorry, sorry!" shouted someone from the back room in a thick highland brogue. "I won't be a minute!"

A stocky man came rushing around the corner a moment longer, a plate in each hand. He bustled past Harry to carry them upstairs. He had an apron tied on over a faded blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up - or at least, one sleeve. The other had begun to unroll, and its cuff hung free halfway to his wrist.

"Right, then," he said when he was back in front of Harry. He paused, dragging the sleeve across his forehead which was flushed as red as his cheeks. "What'll it be?"

"I was actually wondering about the name," admitted Harry.

"The Water Horse? Aye, there's a fine story behind that. My Granda wouldn't let anyone leave afore they'd heard it, so the name stuck."

"I was wondering," Harry began, only to be cut off when the man shoved a sheaf of loose-leaf paper bound by string into his hands.

"The story's written in our menu," he said, giving Harry a knowing wink. "Right at the back, there. Tell you what, read it cover to cover, and I'll come take your order in five."

xXxXxXxX

"Scottish onion soup?" said Harry quizzically.

"It's like French onion, only I crumble all these wee bits of crispy onion over the top instead of garlic bread. Served along with a hot buttered roll and a pot of tea."

Harry shrugged.

"There we are, then," he said. The waitress moved to take the menu back, but Harry held it out of her reach. "Actually, I'll keep hold of that for now. I had a few questions about the story in the back. I don't suppose -"

"Aye, I'll get Alasdair to come out to you," the waitress said. "I can't be having with him underfoot while I'm trying to cook, anyway!"

Soon enough, Alasdair, the stocky man from before, was in front of Harry's table with a bowl of soup. Harry pushed a chair out with his foot, and gestured for him to sit.

"Tell me everything you know about the hooks," demanded Harry.

Alasdair laughed uneasily, and fidgeted with his sleeve, beginning to roll it back up past his elbow.

"Alright, alright!" he said, laughing. "Eager, aren't you? Alright. My Granda used to tell the story like this: our great-great many times Granda was himself a blacksmith all those years gone. He had a bonny lass and a brawny son, and was as proud as a man can be of his family.

One day his lass was gathering flowers down by the loch when she say a beautiful horse. He caught a glimpse himself from a distance. This was a magnificent beast, all strong muscle and silky coat. There was a fae touch about it, about the way the light dappled on its coat. But it was friendly, and let her ride it aplenty, so he gave it no mind.

Until he came across the girl in the arms of a man he had never seen before - a man with wildness in his eyes and strength beyond that of any ordinary folk. The blacksmith leapt to pull them apart, but the stranger knocked him cold with one blow.

When he came to there was no sign of either of them but the girl's clothes strewn about. That stranger had been as naked as she, but there hadn't been any clothing of his on the ground. And as he searched about for any sign of them, all the smith could find was a trail of hoofprints leading into the loch.

That was when he knew what this stranger was. He was the horse. The water horse. And not just any kelpie, but the worst of them all; Each-Uisge.

So he gathered his son and set to forge mighty iron hooks, cold iron forged in the blessed waters of the nearby Fuaran Dearg. Cold iron to slay a faerie creature.

They roasted a prize sheep by the loch to lure the beast in, and as soon as it stepped on solid ground they set those hooks in its flesh to stop it from fleeing.

They trapped the beast with chains and ropes affixed to the ends of the hooks, and bound it to the earth until dawn. When the sun rose, there was nothing left but grey ash where the water horse had been."

Alasdair finished his tale and sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.

The spoon Harry was holding clanked when he dropped it back into his empty bowl. Harry tapped the menu with one finger, before unfolding the napkin set beside it and gently dabbing at his mouth.

"Almost word for word as it is in the menu," said Harry.

"Thank you!" exclaimed Alasdair. Harry bit back the comment he had been about to make; that it was not a compliment.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the hooks?" asked Harry.

"Not much to tell," the other man said, giving a brief shrug. "There's one hanging on the wall, if you'd like to take a look. Bit of a family heirloom, you know?"

He stood up, and spent an awkward moment on tiptoes to pull down a rough piece of metalwork, little more than two rods of pig iron curved and sharpened around one another.

"What about these blessed springs?" asked Harry.

"Ah, the chalybeate springs!" said Alasdair, placing the hook on the table and settling back down into the chair. "They're supposed to hold all sorts of magical gifts for anyone who bathes in them. Healing, and the like. I'd like to have seen this one, but the story doesn't say where it was."

"Chalybeate," repeated Harry, lips moving slightly as he worked through the translation. "The steel springs?"

"Iron. There's plenty of iron salts in the water. Makes the rocks around them all kinds of colourful. Red stripes and such."

Harry stood, inhaling sharply through his nose, and picking up the hook.

"This should be enough to help me find the spring," he said. "Thank you."

He picked up a salt shaker, sprinkling some onto a finger and dabbing it onto the metal. As he did so, he began to move towards the door, almost walking into chairs and tables several times because his gaze was fixed so heavily on the tangled piece of ironwork in his hands.

"Here, you can't just take that!" exclaimed Alasdair, his already pink face flushing to a deeper shade of red.

"It's this or I kill your family," said Harry. "I think I'll stick with just taking the hook. It's not as if a muggle like you could stop me, anyway."

"What's a muggle?"

"Basically cattle," replied Harry absently. The hook thrummed in his hands.

xXxXxXxX

A bicycle crashed onto the ground. The cyclist fell off just in time to prevent himself from being caught underneath it. A car struck the still-spinning wheel of the bike, and it went flying.

Metal vibrated in Harry's hands as he strode through the city, completely unaware of the indignant shouts of pedestrians he walked into, and the drivers he walked in front of. His attention was fully focused on the ancient hook he was holding. Every so often, he paused to take out the salt shaker he had pocketed in the cafe, sprinkle a few grains onto the hook, and observe the patterns they formed as they shook.

Soon he was out of the city centre, and found himself walking down a grassy path towards one of the many satellite towns which had been absorbed as the city expanded over the years. The buildings were less densely packed here, where there was still some semblance of the old boundaries between districts.

As he grew closer, the metal vibrated with more and more force until at last it leapt out of Harry's hands and buried itself into the ground. Right in the middle of a large supermarket's car park. Dozens of cars were parked around him, their muggle owners arguing over the cost of cabbage within the store or dithering outside, blocking the lanes as they packed the shopping into the boots of their cars.

"No," moaned Harry in disgust. "They didn't. _Animals_."

He crouched down by the hook, getting onto one knee and placing his palm flat atop it. The sound of it vibrating against the tarmac was louder than the engines of any of the vehicles around him, and set his teeth on edge even before he touched it. Harry closed his eyes and focused. The sound of the hook accelerated into a shrill whine. Using his other hand, he unscrewed the cap from the salt shaker and emptied it onto the ground. He wet a finger in his mouth, and drew a symbol in the salt.

Everything went still.

Harry concentrated on the feeling of the magic he had left in the metalwork, wrapping his senses around it, and then casting it down, deeper into the ground. His mouth filled with the taste of copper. An itching, like a thousand burrowing insects, spread across his skin. A rushing noise, like wind through seashells, flooded over Harry's awareness of the world. He could feel the remnants of the spring below, bricked up and drawn away with artificial culverts but not completely gone.

Harry added another line to the symbol in the salt, curling it around into a neat serif. He reached out to the waters flowing beneath the ground, and pulled.

The spring answered.

First it came through the breeze. The wind took on the taste of salt. Birds nesting on the roof of the store took to their wings and fled, the sudden cacophony of their startled cries drowning out all other sounds.

Next, it came through the drains. Guttering shook on the buildings nearby, and leaves rose up through grates set into the street, buoyed up by the rising level of water. A puddle formed around the lips of manhole covers, seeping out through the cracks.

Something rumbled, deep beneath the ground.

Rain began to fall from a clear sky, gently at first, but building into a torrent so heavy that car alarms began to set off from the force of the impact.

Harry braced himself against the ground.

There was a resounding crack, and the earth split open. A geyser of brackish water ruptured forth, one at first, but afterwards followed by several others almost as large. There was an earthy brown colour to the water from its rich composition of minerals; Harry could smell them in salt and sulphur in the air.

The force of the geyser breaking through the ground sent Harry flying backwards. He lay spread-eagled on his back, staring at the sky and laughing.

This was how the wizards found him.

xXxXxXxX

A series of cracks sounded. Unlike the deep rumble of the earth tearing itself apart under hydrogeological forces rebelling, these were sharp staccato bursts.

With each crack, a person clad in a similar uniform of long brown robes which bore a superficial resemblance to trench-coats appeared in the car park. Aurors. Two of them struggled to find their footing upon arrival, the currents in ankle-high water were so strong.

"What - what happened here?" one of them asked her neighbour. He hushed her, holding his wand forwards. The others clustered around in a loose formation, all holding their wands at the ready.

"I don't see any Death Eaters," he said at long last. He seemed to be the leader of the group, if his hairline was anything to go by. He had strands of hair brushed unconvincingly across a bald patch the the top of his head, although it was hardly visible given how short the grey hair on the sides also was.

The senior auror straightened up, and lowered his wand. A shudder went through the group as they all relaxed at the same time, just a little. "Alright, fan out. Savage, Longbottom, , you're with me."

Harry sat up, looking at them in surprise. He hadn't expected a response so soon. He put a hand on the hook, still buried solidly into the ground, to help push himself to his feet, almost slipping in the water.

At the sight of Harry's sudden movement, the senior auror whirled around, jabbing his wand in Harry's direction threateningly.

"Drop your wand! Now!" he shouted.

Harry brushed some of the dirt off his robes. It did little good, as they were soaked through with muddy water as well, so he quickly gave it up.

"I don't think he has a wand, Williamson," said the sole woman in the group. Her hair writhed atop her scalp without warning, pulling itself back out of her eyes and binding itself into a tight ponytail without any ties or grips, just one strand wrapping around the rest in a knot.

"Look around! There's only muggles here. Nobody else could have done this," barked the older man. He turned back to Harry quickly, as if afraid that he might have fled during that brief window of distraction. "Wand! On the floor, now!"

"I don't have a wand," said Harry. He held up his hands, palms outwards. "You see?"

Williamson scowled.

"Don't lie to me. You're no muggle. Surrender your wand or we'll take it from your pockets after we stun you."

Harry reached into his pocket, and the aurors tensed.

He pulled out a small flask.

Williamson let out a snarl of anger, and flicked his wand at Harry. A burst of red light struck him in the chest.

Harry looked down at it, his expression blank. At the impact site, red sparks danced for a moment, like a burst of visible static electricity, yet without penetrating his skin. He took a step backwards, and it followed him, adhering to his body even as sparks shot off it.

Just as before when brushing dust away, Harry reached up to brush away at the sparks. Instead of falling away, however, they stuck to his hand. He shook it, but the sparks had taken on the viscosity of congealing jelly. Harry frowned at the sight, and closed his fist. The red light was still visible from between his fingers.

He turned and began to walk away. One of the aurors shot another spell at him, but this one went wide, flying well over his right shoulder.

In front of him, the other two aurors were sprinting back from their task to secure the area. The older of the two was having some trouble, but it wasn't long before the younger auror was standing in front of Harry as if to block his way.

Harry gave him a wide, friendly smile

"Hi!" he said, holding out his hand for the other man to shake. "I'm Harry Potter. How are you doing?"

"Neville - Neville Longbottom," replied the auror, sounding rather confused. He grasped Harry's hand to shake automatically. The stunning spell activated as soon as it leapt to Neville's hand through Harry's fingers, and he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Harry bent down to adjust Neville slightly, making sure that his mouth and nose weren't beneath the water by propping his head up on the raised stone boundary of a planter nearby.

The other aurors rushed forwards, launching spells at the space where Harry had been a moment ago. Harry grinned, and made his way towards one of the large cracks in the ground while they were distracted by tending to Neville.

As he reached the edge, he saw Tonks mouthing the words of a spell, her wand pointed directly at him. He raised a hand to wave, and then leapt down into the hole.

The geysers were still flowing strongly, but they were redirecting the spring waters away from the channels they had formerly followed. Harry landed in a low tunnel lined with concrete slabs, many of which were now fractured or pushed out of alignment.

Every wall of the tunnel was damp, and Harry's feet squished on the mulch of rotting vegetation with every step he took. He grimaced, but made his way deeper, towards the heart of the spring.

Soon enough, the culvert opened up into a more natural looking cavern, albeit one dotted in ugly pipes and waste materials from the building works. There was a sheet of corrugated iron, heavy with rust and serving seemingly no purpose, along with metres and metres of blue rope and plastic fencing.

Behind the muggle debris, however, there were sheer walls of rock, striped in bands of red and gold and silver. Sunlight was streaming into the cavern from where the water had torn a route through to the open air, and this light was glinting off crystals embedded in the rock.

The centre of the cavern was dominated by a pool. Although Harry could hear the geysers still roaring overhead, and the salty spray was misting the air enough that he often had to blink it out of his eyes in order to see, the surface of this pool, the heart of the spring, was completely still.

Harry could see clear through to the red rock at the bottom, colour undiminished by several metres of water. The rocks folded over one another in such a manner that Harry was unable to spot any tunnels moving in or out of the pool, save for a thin stream of bubbles in one corner.

The image was spoiled by a traffic cone bobbing in the water.

Taking care not to slip on rocks which had been smoothed by centuries of erosion, Harry carefully made his way down to the pool. A fine layer of some kind of moss was growing on one side of the pool, hidden from view. Harry's foot came into contact with it, and he almost fell.

He paused, leaning against the dank wall, and tried to plot out a route down. There was still a drop of at least two metres before the surface, but he could see no safe passage.

Harry studied it for as long as he dared, but soon enough the shouts of the aurors began echoing down the tunnels. They had followed him through to the spring.

At a glance behind himself, Harry could see them coming through the culvert into the mouth of the cavern.

He pushed himself off the rocks, and jumped into the water.

The cold almost knocked the breath out of him, and Harry struggled to right himself without swallowing any of the water. He flailed, unsure which way was up, and then grasped hold of the cone by its base. It was all the support he needed to pull his head above water and make his way towards the water's edge.

Harry climbed out slowly, pulling on some of the moss to aid his grip. Eventually he was sitting on the side of the pool, his legs dangling in the water.

Once he had caught his breath, he unstoppered his flask, and filled it from the pool. He sat back as soon as it was full, letting out a sigh.

He let out a peal of laughter, looking up at the aurors struggling to reach him.

"Is it too late to surrender?"


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: How 'bout them cabbages?_

The Ministry of Magic was a grim edifice when not populated with the heavy press of people which filled it during working hours. Less than ten other people were in the vast atrium chamber. The silence would have been eerie if not for the steady splash of water from the many fountain spouts.

"Why all the black stone?" asked Harry. "Was there not enough in the budget to get any trees?"

"Move it," snapped Williamson, jabbing Harry in the back with the tip of his wand.

Harry walked forwards, if only to keep himself from being poked with a sharp object again.

"A window, even," muttered Harry. To his side was a particularly gaudy fountain adorned with golden statues. A sign at the base labelled it as the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Harry slipped one of his hands into the water, trailing his fingers through it as he passed.

"Damn it, Longbottom, I told you to bind his hands!" cried Williamson. He stopped, grabbing Harry roughly by the shoulder to bring him to a halt as well.

"Sir?" asked Neville, moving from his place at the front of the little procession to get a closer look. "I did." He frowned, looking at Harry's hands.

Harry waved, spattering droplets of water everywhere from the hand which had been in the fountain. Some distance away, a length of slender rope lay on the atrium floor.

"And here I was hoping your grandmother was exaggerating when she told me you were a useless squib," said Williamson. He shoved Harry roughly forwards, knocking him into Neville. Neville's wand clattered to the floor. "Do it again. Or do I need to send you back to Hogwarts for your Transfiguration NEWT?"

Williamson stalked away, inaudible mutters trailing behind him.

"Sorry Nev," said Tonks, pulling him to his feet. "I need to go for a team of Obliviators. Can you sign Potter in?" She rushed after Williamson without waiting for a response.

Harry bent down, plucking Neville's wand up from the floor.

A sudden tightness crossed Neville's face.

Harry held it out for him.

"I'm actually rather excellent at Transfiguration," said Neville, smiling at Harry. "Everyone learns how to cast the Incarcerous spell by rote," he added, taking back his wand and tapping it on the side of Harry's arm. Ropes burst from the tip, wrapping several times around Harry's wrists to pull them together - and then stopping short of fastening into a knot.

Harry moved his wrists a little closer together to prevent the ropes from moving. He studied the ropes which had been flawlessly conjured.

"There's no need to truss you up. Nobody was hurt, you don't have a wand, and you're not going anywhere, right? Still, don't make a fuss."

"But," said Harry. "Rebuilding the spell on the fly to omit one of its key steps? That's far more impressive."

"Right?" said Neville, placing a hand on Harry's upper arm and motioning gently for him to come along, and then striding forwards himself. "You have no idea how impressed McGonagall was when she saw me do it. And that was just with the Vermillious charm!"

"I don't know that spell," admitted Harry.

Neville looked askance at Harry, turning his head to look more fully at him, although he did not break his stride.

"That's one of the first spells any wizard learns," said Neville. "Periculum for first years?"

"I don't know who McGonagall is, either," said Harry.

"Professor McGonagall?" Neville furrowed his brow in confusion, and then his face lit up in understanding. "Oh, I thought it was odd I didn't recognise you. You didn't go to Hogwarts, did you?"

Harry shook his head.

Neville made a soft noise of understanding, and snapped his fingers.

"That explains it, then. Where did you go to school? I have a friend who went to Durmstrang. You don't seem to have the accent, but then, you don't sound French to me either. Sounds like you're from around here, if I'm honest with you."

Harry laughed.

"Yeah, you're right there. I am from around here. I was - I guess you could say I was homeschooled. With a bit of on-the-job training." Harry paused, searching for the right words. "I was apprenticed, you could say."

The only sounds for a good while were footsteps. Neville shook his head, a sad expression coming across his face.

"That's a bit quaint," he said at last. "Gran wanted to apprentice me as well, but Uncle Algie put his foot down." He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but was interrupted by the rapid approach of the desk they had been walking towards all this time. "Ah! Here we are," he said to the portly wizard manning the desk station.

"Longbottom," said the other wizard in greeting, raising a piece of rigid golden wire and scanning it across both of the newcomers.

"I've got Harry Potter here to check in" said Neville. The other wizard grunted and made a note on a sheet of parchment. "Who's got space in their diary?"

"Williamson."

"I - no. Best not," said Neville, giving Harry a look of mild amusement.

"Thicknesse."

"Galloping Gargoyles, man, have a heart!"

"Granger."

"She doesn't even work for this department!" exclaimed Neville. He sighed, and patted Harry on the back. "Don't worry," he said. "Granger's good at doing other people's jobs. She'll take care of you."

The portly wizard cleared his throat, and shoved a metal tray across the desk towards them.

"Wand."

"That's going to be a problem," said Harry.

xXxXx

As interrogation rooms went, it was spacious and well-furnished. The desk in the centre was a sturdy piece of solid mahogany, made from the same material as the floor. Upon closer inspection it all appeared to be a single moulded piece, all transfigured into part of the same object to prevent it from being jostled by unruly criminals.

The witch named Granger sat on one side of the table, shuffling through sheets of parchment. A muggle-style paperclip fixed them together, and she had both a quill pen in her hair and a few lines of ink on her cheekbone where she seemed to have missed more than once while attempting to tuck it behind her ear.

Without looking up from her files, she rapped her wand on the surface of the desk and the ropes wrapped around Harry's wrists vanished.

"A flagrant breach of the Statute of Secrecy, destruction of muggle property, resisting arrest, and - well." She coughed, and turned over the parchment. "Much the same again, under any one of a number of different pieces of legislation. Frankly, Mr. Potter, I'm spoilt for choice as to which law I could cite if the Ministry elects to prosecute you."

"I like to keep my options open," said Harry, resting his hands on the table.

"And then we have this," added the witch, taking out Harry's flask, which had been confiscated during his arrest. She placed it on the table, just far enough away that Harry was unable to reach it without standing. "What's in the flask?"

"I'll be honest," said Harry. "It's mostly water."

Granger frowned, and for the first time put all of the parchment down.

"Mr. Potter, a great many substances are mostly water."

Harry gave a lazy shrug. The witch met his gaze for several seconds, and then sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her forefinger.

"Very well, then," she said. "We can start somewhere else. The Ministry records for you are somewhat sparse. This gives me some latitude in how to address your situation, as you have no prior criminal record. Or, in truth, any of significance beyond a birth certificate. I can see here, as a British wizard, you were registered to attend Hogwarts. Following the -" her voice broke up for a moment, and then she gathered herself, shuffling the parchment rather vigorously to cover it up. "Following the deaths of your parents, your Hogwarts letters were sent to the care of the Dursley family in Privet Drive. The situation escalated when no response was heard, and a team of Obliviators were issued."

Harry choked back a laugh.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Owls, Mr. Potter. An abundance of owls." She checked a note on the file. "Fourteen-hundred and eight owls. The cost of excising fecal matter alone from the street cost in excess of two hundred galleons."

Harry winced at the image.

"Did they not get the hint? I wasn't even with the Dursleys by the time I was old enough to start Hogwarts."

"I'm afraid many magical schools still hold onto the old rivalries and ward against even post from other educational institutions," said Granger. "Where did you go to school?"

"D'you know, Neville asked me that as well," said Harry.

The witch sitting opposite him gave a thin smile.

"Yes, he would have done," she agreed.

There was an odd note in her voice, so Harry looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.

"Gathering intelligence about an enemy combatant's training is basic auror procedure, Mr. Potter. I do beg your pardon if you thought he was simply being friendly."

Harry bit back a retort, and sat there in silence. He had found the auror to be genuinely enjoyable company during their brief conversation, and one of the first people his own age that he'd interacted with in what seemed like forever. He felt a pang in his gut as he looked back over the conversation, and wondered just how many of those pleasantries had been fake smiles to get him to lower his guard and talk.

"Where did you go to school?" asked Granger, gesturing at the forms lying in front of her to remind him of why she was asking.

"I didn't," Harry said, rather shortly.

The Ministry witch sat upright suddenly.

"You mean you didn't go to Hogwarts?" she prompted.

"No," replied Harry. "I haven't been to school since I was seven."

Granger stared at him in shock. Her eyes opened wide, and she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. After a moment, her lips parted and eyebrows lifted.

"Oh!" she said quietly, to herself. "So that's why! I mean, no wonder. If you've never had an education some accidental magic was bound to happen sooner or later. Oh, I wonder if he even knows that he's a wizard!"

"I'm not a wizard," said Harry, watching her ramble off on a runaway train of thought with no small amount of amusement, along with a fair measure of incredulity at how rapidly her demeanour had changed.

"Maybe not yet," she said, beginning to speak faster. "But with that incident today you must have so much potential. It's a bit unorthodox, but we'll find you a teacher, and once your hearing is over we can get you a wand, and -"

"I don't want a wand," said Harry, loud enough to interrupt her. She narrowed her eyes.

"You're getting a wand."

xXxXxXx

Hours flew by in a blur of paperwork. Forms were filled and signed, and eventually he was released with a punishment worse than Azkaban.

"Community service," said Granger at long last.

Harry groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

"I'll take the Dementors," he whined, not making eye contact.

"I am remanding you into the custody of Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a period of no less than eight week, to offer such services as you are able at the discretion of the Headmaster."

"This is a cruel and unusual punishment," said Harry. "I demand to be thrown in Azkaban."

The witch smiled, and reached up to her hair. She pulled out the narrow strip of fabric which was holding it back, and curls of chestnut hair bounced free, hanging loosely down to her shoulders. She moved her neck from side to side, letting out a quiet noise of contentment as it cracked.

"Oh, it's not so bad. The school is empty for the summer, so you'll have a whole castle almost to yourself. There's plenty of fresh air, and the grounds are gorgeous."

Harry sighed, and pushed himself up from the desk. His cheek was sore where it had been pressing into the ornate metal fastenings on his sleeve, and he could feel his hair was disheveled. He reached up to comb his fingers through it and pat it down, bringing it back into some semblance of order.

"Is this all an elaborate trick to get me to go to school?" he asked.

"Professor Dumbledore will be happy to discuss that with you at a later date," said Granger, a quirk at the edge of her mouth betraying her attempt to maintain a straight face. "For the most part, I believe he needed an extra pair of hands to assist with errands within the castle and maintenance of the grounds. It's as good an entry point to the Wizarding World as any for you, Mr. Potter. And besides, it's not so unusual a punishment as you might think."

"It's not?" asked Harry doubtfully.

Granger shook her head.

"Why, the position you'll be filling was previously occupied by someone in your situation. He got in a little trouble for assaulting muggles while he was younger, and was successfully rehabilitated to have a long and illustrious career at Hogwarts."

Granger stood, continuing to stretch, and stifling a yawn. She looked down at Harry with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"His name was Argus Filch."

She paused meaningfully. Harry stared at her.

"You remember I have no idea who that is, right?" he asked. "I have no context for what I'm sure was a very clever reference."

"As long as you appreciate that I was clever, we don't need to worry about the fine details. Now, do come along." She flicked her wand at the flask on the desk, sending it floating up within Harry's reach. He snatched it out of the air, opening it briefly to take a sniff.

The liquid inside smelt faintly of eggs, and faintly of the sea, but as the aroma entered Harry's nostrils, his other senses flared, broadening the scent into deeper sensations. Harry felt the warmth of sunlight on a flower bud as the petals curled out, unfolding with new growth, and he heard the sharp ring of iron being hammered. His knuckles tingled as the sympathetic image of sparks from the struck metal danced over his hands.

He exhaled.

The magical senses retreated to the back of his mind, and then Harry was sighing in relief at having found the contents unspoiled.

"This Hogwarts everyone keeps going on about," began Harry. "Does it have a stream or a river nearby? Even a duck pond would do."

Granger looked at him sideways, not saying anything. She pursed her lips, continuing to stare at him. Harry shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under her gaze.

"Well I could drag a bathtub outside if I had to, but that seems like poor manners," he said."I'm sure you will find the duck pond in the grounds to your satisfaction, Mr Potter. Now, do come along," she repeated. "Or you would prefer to take the train?"

xXxXxXx

A short walk through the winding corridors of the Ministry led them to a small foyer by the atrium. Ceiling-high fireplaces ringed the walls. Instead of mantelpieces, there were blocky end tables made from the same onyx bricks as the walls between the fireplaces. Each of them held a small pot.

Only one of the fireplaces was lit, and even that one barely so. A few embers clung to life behind an iron grate. Granger pushed at the dying logs with a poker which had hung beside the end table, and then picked up the pot, handing it over to Harry.

Harry upended the pot, pouring out a measure of a fine green powder into his hands. The light caught it at peculiar angles, reflecting and refracting through crystals within the powder to make it glitter as if lit from within.

He moved his palm this way and that, tilting the mound of glittering powder to get a better look at it. The texture was smoother than sand or salt.

"This is delightful," murmured Harry, entranced by the powder he was holding. He swirled the tip of a finger through it, and then licked a finger to dab some of the powder onto his tongue.

"That's not supposed to be ingested!" exclaimed Granger, snatching the pot back from him. "This is Floo Powder."

"This is a ground and desiccated sap-vein," said Harry. He ran his tongue over his teeth, savouring the taste of the powder. "Smoke-fired cuttings from some kind of creeper. Maybe - maybe clematis, or honeysuckle." He closed his eyes. "Don't tell me - some kind of sympathetic magic? Cut-vine to living vine. Dried and ground and mixed for dispersal. Fire is present throughout the whole process, of course, but not destroying, not burning. Changing." His eyes shot open.

"Some kind of fire portal?" he asked, his voice raised with a touch of incredulity.

Granger cocked her head to one side.

"Why, yes," she said. "You said you've never heard of Floo Powder before. What did you just do?"

"I know plants," said Harry dismissively. "All magic has a pattern to it. It's there for anyone to see if they know how to look. But - " he hesitated. "This isn't anything like what I was expecting from wand-wizard magic."

The witch put a hand on her hip, a slightly smug expression coming onto her face.

"Whatever rudimentary understanding of Herbology you may have gathered, Mr Potter, there have been a thousand years of witches and wizards passing through Hogwarts. I assure you, we have discovered a great many things in that time."

Harry placed his palms together, turning them over and over, letting the powder slip through his fingers and fall into the other hand.

"Show me a few more things like this, and we may not be wasting our time here," he said, and then paused, looking thoughtful. "Wait a second - you said that this isn't supposed to be ingested?"

Granger nodded, taking a pinch out of the pot she had snatched back earlier.

"Take a pinch, like so. Stand well back, and toss it into the fire."

She threw the powder past the grate, and as soon as it touched the meagre flame it roared into brilliant emerald tongues, flaring almost to the height of a man.

"Step into the flames, and speak the name of your destination. Enunciate, or you might end up off-course," she said. By the time she had finished speaking, the flames had begun to dwindle, changing shades back to a more muted orange. "Now, you try. Throw, step, and then say Hogwarts. Got it?"

Harry grinned.

"Oh no. You're missing a trick here." He smoothed the powder onto the back of one of his hands, and used his fingers to ease it out into a rough line. "Really I should be shaping this into a rune first, but that's so much more effort, and basically just for show."

He lifted his hand up until it was level with his face, leaned forwards a little and inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in the powder. A shock ran through his body, as if he'd been struck by lightning. Harry felt a tingling deep within the bones of his fingers, and a rising sensation from deep in his stomach which travelled up to the base of his throat.

Granger squawked in surprise, and made to grab Harry's hand, but was too late. He pulled his hand away from his face and grinned at her, wrinkling his nose and shaking the excess powder off.

He stepped forwards, reaching down to grasp the fire as if picking a rock up from the ground. As it came into contact with his skin, the colour shifted back to the same emerald shade it had taken on when the Floo Powder had been thrown in a moment ago. It was cool to the touch, and surprisingly solid. It tickled his skin where he held it. The was only the barest hint of surface tension, but Harry attempted to close his fist and found himself unable to do more than curl his fingers - the fire strongly resisted any compression. He picked up a second handful of fire, and stepped back, turning to face Granger who was watching the spectacle in shocked silence.

Harry stretched out his arms, moving his shoulders to loosen then and taking several small steps on the stop. He shook his arms, and then stilled, arms still held apart. He winked at Granger.

"Hogwarts," he said, and clapped his hands, bringing the two orbs of swirling green fire together. They ignited upon contact, exploding outwards in a dome which engulfed both witch and wizard, and the world fell away in a storm of green flames.

xXxXx

Harry leaned back to relax, and a shiver of anticipation ran from the base of his spine. His toes curled and uncurled, and for a moment he thought that he wasn't wearing shoes anymore; when he looked down to check there was nothing beneath his feet.

The flagstones of the Ministry had been replaced with a roiling sea of green fire which rose and bit at his heels, thrashing like serpents striking for the kill, yet somehow always reaching just short of coming into contact with him or the witch he'd dragged alongside him into this emerald inferno.

At a glance, she seemed to be horrified, but the frantic expression on her face unfolded from fear into one of utter fascination. She peered this way and that, trying to look deeper into their surroundings, yet no matter how far she reached, she never came any closer to the fire - the bubble of still, cool air around them remained equidistant.

A heavy pressure filled the air. It stilled and hardened, as if the oxygen had turned into solid crystal. Harry inhaled deeply through his mouth and nose. The air still flowed easily into his lungs, but yet had an odd quality to it, as if it were many times denser than normal.

He leaned further, arching his back as pulses of searing heat rose up his back in steady waves. He sucked the air in between his teeth, and the fine lines of air in his mouth felt razor-sharp and icy cold.

His body felt weightless, and Harry realised that he was still moving backwards, further and further. His feet slid upwards until he lost all sense of self or space.

The flames around deepened and twisted. Strange patterns, silhouettes of people and creatures, appeared and disappeared, forming into clouds of fractals which burst apart. The crystalline area of peace around him began to take on more complex details around its edges. Harry's eyes caught onto the boundary, and as he tried to focus clearly on it, the shape he'd taken for an orb spiraled out into a helix, and then again, and again, into impossible structures he had no name for.

Harry lost track of his arms and legs. He became just a pair of lungs, inflating and deflating to the rhythm of the pulses running faster and faster up his spine. The air thickened further. He forgot how to breathe, and and the pulses ran faster still.

He was the beat in the heart of a star.

And then he wasn't anything at all.

 _Beat_

 _Beat_

 _There was soil beneath his toes. He stretched them out, and down, and drank. He turned his face to the sun. He opened his mouth to greet the sky, and found his heart on his tongue._

 _Beat_

 _The currents in the air held him aloft, moving over him, moving under him. He twisted his shoulder, and the changing pressure turned the rest of his body for him, angling him back on course. Something in his mind between exhaustion and exhilaration cried out in constant signal, tugging him north._

 _Beat_

 _Snow beneath his paws. Courage and comfort from kin nearby. Smoke in the air, warning humans, danger, but then the hot stink of prey like an avalanche crashing by, hamstrung by pack and weakened and falling and ambush and then blood between your jaws._

 _Beat_

 _Beat_

The metallic tang of blood on his tongue shakes Harry from his reverie, and he pushes himself back upright. The coursing fractal of green fire writhes around him, and he opens his eyes, and then he opens his eyes _again_.

Stone beneath his feet. Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Author's Note removed by popular demand._

 **Chapter Four**

Wisps of green hung in the air like fog on a cold morning, coiling and fading without ever completely dissipating. Harry opened and closed his fingers, stretching the boots on his feet felt tight and uncomfortable, as if they had shrunk a size and stiffened to wood. He took a small step, wiggling his toes to try to get the blood flowing back through them. He blinked back moisture which was gathering in eyes that seemed too dry all of a sudden.

"Mr. Potter?" said Hermione. She stared straight ahead, unblinking even as she addressed the other woman. "What - what was - Potter?" she asked again, her voice cracking hesitantly. She shivered, and a strand of frizzy hair fell into her eyes. She made no move to brush it out of the way.

Harry grinned, and turned his attention back to Hermione.

"Did you see that?" he asked excitedly. "I wasn't expecting - oh, of course! You're a witch!" Hermione blinked at long last, and turned to look at Harry. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, looking stunned.

Harry gave her a wide grin.

"I - I can taste the square root of twenty-three," mumbled Hermione.

"What did it taste like?" asked Harry excitedly.

Hermione pulled a face, swilling the saliva around inside her mouth, and then spat suddenly on the stone floor.

"Irregular," she said, and then blinked. Her eyes opened wide, and she snapped her head around to look at the damp patch on the ground. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! I don't know why I did that!" she exclaimed. The airy, confused tones had left her voice completely. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Harry rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck. Little aftershocks of the magical experience danced across his limbs, making his legs feel oddly leaden but his arms too light, as if his wrists and forearms had disappeared to leave only hands floating through the air on a cloud of static electricity.

He waved a hand back and forth, savouring the feeling. It took effort to move through the air, as if it was denser than usual. A rushing sound filled his ears, growing louder and louder until it threatened to overwhelm him.

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. The sensation receded, as if he had actually swallowed it, leaving only a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He began to laugh, and found that he couldn't stop. By the time that he had regained control of his faculties, he found that Hermione had gathered herself as well. She brushed several strands of hair out of her face with mixed success, and gave him an inscrutable look.

"What exactly did you do?" she asked.

"Magic, as you observed."

"But that's preposterous!" she exclaimed. "You have no training, no wand, no - no education! That's why I'm bringing you to - to Hogwarts?" Her words trailed off as she began to take in the surroundings. They were in a large stone room surrounded in the arches of grand doors. A wide staircase wound upwards in a lazy spiral at one end of the chambers. Four hourglasses full of coloured stones sat at its base.

"Oh good," said Harry. "I had hoped, but I've never been here before. Or tried travelling with Floo Powder before."

"That's not how you use Floo Powder."

"Seemed to work out alright to me," said Harry. "We've still got all of our limbs and most of our teeth."

A figure in sparkling purple robes stepped out from behind a nearby tapestry, patting voluminous sleeves free of dust as he approached. His wand swung from a knot tied in his beard, and a cobweb was stuck to his elbow.

"If only all of my students could boast as much upon graduation, I should consider my job very well done indeed. Good evening Miss Granger," he said, nodding at the witch before turning his attention to Harry. "Mr. Potter, welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm very glad to meet you at last."

Harry squinted at Dumbledore suspiciously.

"Did you just come out of a secret passageway?"

Dumbledore smiled ruefully.

"Alas, no. I was merely hiding."

xXxXxXx

"This way, if you please," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry and Hermione quickly up the stairs. "We mustn't linger in the corridors."

"Who are you hiding from?" asked Harry.

"The most base kind of villain there is, Mr. Potter. A tattletale." Dumbledore froze suddenly, and then pulled Harry into a classroom. He peeked around the doorframe like a naughty school child, winking at Harry when he joined him.

A particularly mangy cat padded around the corner. Dumbledore leaned out of sight, and clasped a hand over Harry's mouth to stifle the laugh which bubbled out. The cat miaowed once, and sniffed the ground. It looked to and fro, and then continued searching down the corridor.

Once the cat was far enough away, Dumbledore straightened, and gave Harry a genial smile.

"That, my dear boy, was Mrs Norris. I regret to say that she will be acting as liaison to your - what was the term, Miss Granger? Ah, yes. Parole officer. A more dastardly beast has not walked these halls in decades, I assure you." Dumbledore raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"A cat?"

"She has tenure," said Dumbledore. "And tenure is an evil beyond even my abilities to defeat." He paused and looked at Harry knowingly. "I believe your earlier suggestion of a secret passage was rather inspired. Shall we?" He tapped his wand on the door jamb, and the door swung shut. There was a loud click, and then it opened again, revealing a different hallway altogether.

"In here, quickly," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry and Hermione through the open door. As soon as they were past the frame, he slammed the door shut. Something within the wall clicked, and then the door melted away, leaving only a depression between two pillars to mark where it had been.

Harry looked around the passage. The surfaces were all clean of dust, but there were no signs of life either. It looked like a disused corridor which had been scrubbed meticulously clean, or perhaps sealed away so tightly that not even dust could creep in.

The corridor continued for a dozen steps in either direction. At one end there was a stained glass window depicting a phoenix in flight. The setting sun, already tinged with orange, was burnished into a deeper red as it shone through the mosaic-like panels. The other end of the corridor fell away in a low, sloping staircase.

"This is one of the least used of all Hogwarts' secrets," said Dumbledore. "Why, I can't recall having passed through here myself more than a handful of times, and I've lived in this castle for almost a tenth of her entire life."

"I've never seen this passage before," said Hermione, slightly out of breath from the pace Dumbledore was setting. The stairs were broad and shallow, so the trio were moving at a fairly brisk rate. Despite being the eldest of the three, Dumbledore had taken the lead with a fairly vigorous speed. "Where does it lead?" she asked.

"To our destination, Miss Granger."

Harry chuckled quietly. Hermione shot him an inscrutable look, holding his gaze for a moment before her expression softened and lips turned up in a suggestion of a smile.

They continued downwards for quite some time. There were no windows here, in the heart of the castle, so the staircase was lit by iron sconces set into the walls. Bluebell flames rose spontaneously into existence as Dumbledore drew near, and vanished once the three had moved a certain distance onwards.

Harry paused to examine one, sticking his hand into the flame. They had a similar cool tickle to the flames of his trip through the Floo. They clung to his fingers like oil, yet burned away into nothingness when he pulled his hand away from the sconce. He twisted his hand this way and that, studying the flames. There was something about the sensation of them tickling against his skin which bothered him; something just on the edge of realisation.

He popped one in his mouth and let it roil over his tongue like a wave. It tasted peculiar - not quite a taste so much as the memory of one. It was reminiscent of honey and salt and blackberries.

Without warning it disappeared, vanishing first from one side of his mouth, and the the other.

Harry's eyes widened, and he spun around to stare at Dumbledore. The older wizard's back was turned as he marched onwards, chattering away with Hermione. Harry had thought that the sconces were enchanted, but with a small amount of shock he realised that this wasn't the case. It had disappeared from the side of his mouth furthest from Dumbledore first, leaving only the lingering traces of magic tugging ever so slightly in his direction. That could only mean one thing.

Dumbledore had been summoning the flames as they walked by, casting magic without a wand or word or gesture. More than that, he had done it with such an enviable casualness that Harry had believed the magic was spontaneously happening around him rather than being cast.

A knot in Harry's stomach unwound itself, and he felt a tension lift off his shoulders. This was real magic. Not a spell or a charm or a gimmick, but something much closer to Harry's own craft.

Both the professor and Hermione were quite some distance away by now, so Harry broke into a jog to catch up with them.

They were waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. A heavy oak door bound with brass blocked off the passage, with only a small square left at the base of the stairway for them to stand in. Harry stepped off the final stair, and found there was just enough room for him to squeeze into that space beside the others. Dumbledore gave him a knowing look. Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation, and then turned her attention back to Dumbledore.

"Where does this passage lead?" Hermione asked again, looking between Harry and Dumbledore. "We must be below the dungeons by now!"

"It would certainly seem that way, wouldn't it?" agreed Dumbledore. "Would you be a dear and get the door for me?"

Hermione grasped the large brass ring which made up the handle, and pushed. It creaked, but didn't move. She narrowed her eyes and shoved at it again, pushing her shoulder right up against the wood. The wood groaned against the strain, and then burst open.

Icy wind tore into the stale air of the stairway. Hermione shrieked, and clung to the brass ring with both hands, which only served to make the door swing open further, and pull her out onto the other side.

A narrow bridge carved from a single piece of unbroken stone lay ahead of them. The wind gusted about something fierce, and even from inside the castle Harry felt it pull at his hair and clothes. Outside, the door revealed a view almost from the top of one of Hogwarts' towers. Although they had spent a fair bit of time walking downwards, they had ended up at this height, with only the bridge in front of them to connect this tower to the one in front. It spanned a gap of at least thirty feet, and had no railings, handholds, or even a lip on the edge; just a flat piece of stone which was perhaps four feet in width.

Dumbledore chuckled, and strode out into the open air, taking care not to brush past Hermione as she stared directly down. The roof of the Great Hall was immediately beneath them. Crystal spires were set into the apex of the roof at even intervals. Harry could count seven in total. The thrum of magic clung to them in an otherworldly glow, and he wondered at their purpose.

Hermione bit her lip, and slowly unclenched her hands from the door. She had straightened up and was just about to take her first step when Harry noticed a tell-tale shimmer in the air around the bridge. A wicked thought rose up, and he stepped forwards quietly. Hermione was so engaged in carefully moving out that she didn't notice him sneak up behind her.

He shoved her in the small of the back, sending her over the edge of the bridge.

Her scream was perfect, and Harry laughed as she bounced off the cushioning charms suspended in the air, and was flung back onto the bridge. She staggered, her balance completely lost in the moment of fear, and accidentally stepped off the other side. The charms repelled her again, bouncing her off a cushion of dense air.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist," said Harry, still laughing to himself. He grabbed Hermione by the shoulders, steadying her. She whirled around to face him, whipping herself in the face with her hair. She spat it out, and glared at him.

"The release form hasn't been signed yet," she growled. "I can still have you thrown in Azkaban for fifteen years."

Harry grinned.

"That's what I asked you to do, if you remember," he said. He raised his hands and mimed pushing her again, only to find a wand pressed against his sternum.

"Help! Professor!" he called out. "Police brutality!"

Dumbledore looked over his shoulder and shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. Harry heard the indistinct mutter of "First Years," and then the headmaster walked on.

"There are no police brutality laws in the Wizarding World Mr. Potter," said Hermione, moving closer to him with a menacing scowl. Her hair had begun to flop back down in front of her face. She shook it back in annoyance, but it fell down again.

Harry brushed it out of her eyes for her. She blinked, and froze for a moment. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks.

"I- I'm not really DMLE anyway," she stammered out. Hermione turned away to hide her embarrassment, and stormed away. Harry followed after her, still chuckling almost all the way until they had entered the other tower. From there it was just a short climb to the headmaster's office.

xXxXxXx

"Ah yes, thank you," said Dumbledore, taking the thick folder of parchment from Hermione. "I shall assume the paperwork has been completed to your usual standards of excellence, and will peruse it at my leisure." He smiled up at Hermione, and tapped the folder with his wand. The parchment twisted around itself, first crumpling into a ball and then expanding outwards. It twisted through the impossible shapes of Transfiguration until fine layer of steam began to rise from the surface. The steam hissed, and the folder became a chipped porcelain tea set.

"Will you be joining us for tea?" he asked.

"Thank you, but no. I really must be getting along now," said Hermione, climbing to her feet. "You can let me know how things turn out at the next meeting. Goodnight Professor, Mr. Potter."

She left rapidly, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore in his office. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching each other through the rising spiral of steam above the teapot.

"So you'll be reporting back to the Ministry on how my rehabilitation is progressing?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Oh, not at all. They've handed you over to me completely. It's an interesting idea, isn't it, this community service? Any wrongdoing of yours is my responsibility while you are in my care, and in exchange I gain the advantage of your services. A fair trade, don't you think?"

"But Granger mentioned a meeting?" said Harry.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "That's a different matter altogether. We're part of the same social club. If our little arrangement today works out well, perhaps I'll bring you along to the meeting."

Harry shrugged. He wrinkled his nose, and then leaned forwards, peering at the teapot.

"That's not tea, is it?"

In response, Dumbledore poured Harry a cup, passing it over the table. It was full of hot chocolate. Harry stared at it, and before his eyes several marshmallows popped into existence just over the surface. They fell with an almost inaudible plop into the hot chocolate.

Harry lifted the cup to his lips. Even before the liquid hit his tongue, his mouth was full of an overwhelming sweetness. The vapour rising from the hot chocolate coiled within his mouth, condensing and settling into a spiderweb of crystallised sugar. Harry bit down. It crunched beneath his teeth, fizzing pleasantly on his tongue. It was almost too sweet, but the drink itself balanced it out with the rich bitterness of dark chocolate.

After the first mouthful, the vapour rose back up from the cup, flooding his mouth with sweetness once again. The combination of drink and crystal candy took his full attention until the cup sat empty once again on the saucer.

Dumbledore watched him with a pleased expression.

"What am I going to be doing for you?" asked Harry, working his mouth to get the last vestiges of the sugar candy out of the corners of his gums.

"Odd jobs, for the most part. Hogwarts has found herself in need of a castellan. I was hoping that you might become a good fit for the role."

"What does a castellan do?"

"This and that," said Dumbledore. "Keeping the castle in order, for the most part."

"You want me for your cleaner?" Harry frowned at the dregs of his drink. "I've played along with this set-up so far, but if you think I'm just going to roll over and become some menial servant," he said, catching himself mid-sentence and biting off the end of his retort. "I don't wish to be a rude guest, but perhaps I should thank you for the drink and take my leave."

Dumbledore raised one hand, palm outwards in a gesture of peace.

"There's a little more to it than that, but yes, cleaning the castle would also fall under your jurisdiction. You wouldn't need to clean the castle yourself - we have house elves for that. You can if you wish," he added, flashing an unexpected wink at Harry from behind his spectacles. "Besides," continued Dumbledore. "Unless my information is severely out of date, you have nowhere else to go."

Harry stood abruptly, knocking his cup and saucer off the desk. The fine bone china shattered loudly on the floor, decapitating one of the kittens painted in a pattern around its rim. Dumbledore rapped his knuckles on the desk, and the shards of porcelain vanished.

"So you set this whole thing up?" demanded Harry. "This was all just a scheme to manipulate me into coming here?" He shoved his chair roughly out of the way. As it was a large armchair, solidly built, it only moved a few inches. He pushed past it, making his way towards the door.

"Yes," replied Dumbledore amiably.

Harry paused, and turned back to look at the other man. Dumbledore sipped from his hot chocolate and smacked his lips in enjoyment.

"You're not going to deny it?"

"Why would I deny helping the son of an old student out of a spot of trouble?" asked Dumbledore. "Not to mention the student of an old friend."

"My teacher despised you," said Harry slowly.

"Many of my oldest friends do," said Dumbledore, taking another sip. "I fear it's my personality which does it." He frowned, and placed the cup down. "I also fear that this drink has gone cold. It's never the same when you re-heat it, even with magic." With a flick of his wand he vanished the drink. A second flick moved Harry's armchair back into position. "I know this must be a difficult time for you, Harry. I also mourn his loss, more than he might credit me for."

"How did you hear about his death?" asked Harry, settling cautiously back into the chair.

"Why, you told me," said Dumbledore. "He swore that he would not let the Wizarding World know of your survival so long as he drew breath. He was not a man to speak oaths lightly."

Harry frowned, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning back.

"Why would he say something like that?"

"Of all the magics we inherited from the ancient Roman wizards, there was nothing he despised so much as prophecy."

xXxXx

The castellan's rooms lay directly beneath the headmaster's office. A thick layer of stone precluded the spread of any noises, or so Dumbledore had assured Harry with another wink as he left him at the door.

Harry lay back on a ridiculously oversized four-poster bed and stared at the canopy overhead. It felt like years since he'd slept in an actual bed. It was so soft as to be overwhelming, and he felt that he was sinking so far into the mattress that it might close up over him and swallow him whole.

He turned over onto his side, and then again onto the other.

It was no good.

He had lain there for hours, mulling over the situation he now found himself in. The set of rooms he'd been presented with were a kingly suite, outfitted with luxurious furniture and dimensions which would have been excessive in an actual palace.

"All this for a cleaner?" he muttered into his pillow.

"No dear, you're the castellan," said the mirror. He threw the pillow at it, and it responded with an indignant yelp.

Harry sat up, sighing and rubbing at his nose with the back of a hand. The phantom itch which had settled there was just the latest of a thousand tiny discomforts which had built up as he lay there. He stood, and glanced over at the window. Heavy wooden shutters blocked out all light, so he could only see them through the textured grain of his oaksight. It wasn't enough. He could still feel the hum of the moon beyond them.

He strode over to the window, bare feet slapping silently against the flagstones. They were beyond cold to the touch, but he relished the sensation. The lock on the shutters had rusted shut. More than that, it had rusted through so much that he barely had to exert himself to tear them open. The protest of red iron cracking open was like a thunderclap in the silence of the castle at midnight.

Behind the shutters, the window itself was a cage of black metal holding narrow panes of glass together. Harry grimaced in frustration. No matter the icy chill of stone under his bare feet, he longed to feel the breeze on his face. The air in the room was stifling. This room had to be ten paces across, but the walls felt as if they were closing in.

Harry slammed his fist against the windowsill. The stones buckled under the impact, but then he felt a gentle pressure against his knuckles. He looked at them curiously, not moving his fist from where it depressed to stonework. Beneath his gaze, the stone bubbled upward, gently but firmly pushing his hand upwards until the stones lay once again in an unblemished line.

From somewhere deep in his chest, Harry felt a manic laugh begin to bubble up. He reached out with one finger, and drove it through a pane of glass as if he was holding a knife. Almost immediately there was a peculiar sucking sensation around the digit as the window sought to pull itself back together. Harry drew his finger back and watched as the glass healed itself.

He took a step back, studying the frame. Dumbledore had said that these were his rooms, to do with and decorate as he pleased. The manic laugh rose again, this time rising past his chest and out of his mouth.

He took another step back, and then dove forwards, straight into the window. It held for a fraction of a second, and then with the groan of tortured metal, the framework within the glass tore itself loose as a single unit, tearing massive gouges out of the surrounding walls.

A cool breeze licked at Harry's face at last, whipping his hair about, and settling the growing unease within his gut.

The window frame hung in the air as a solid object for a moment, and then the individual squares of glass fell to the ground. The moonlight glinted off them as they fell; a shower of diamond dust glimmering against the backdrop of empty night.

A heartbeat later, the iron frame itself began to fall, and Harry along with it. He kicked the metal away from him as he fell, letting out a whoop of glee. The breeze magnified into a rushing gale as he fell, scouring his naked body with an almost painful caress.

Bats swarmed underneath him in the undulating murmuration of geometric shapes reminiscent almost of the twisting staircases in the heart of Hogwarts. Harry turned over in the air, looking up at the night sky. The moon was nearly full, but almost as soon as his eyes touched its pale face, the bats had passed him, and blocked it out of his field of vision.

And then Harry struck the ground.

A thick carpet of moss and grass muted the impact to just a muffled thud. The tremors shook through the ground and his body alike, and for a time he just lay there, breathing deeply. The wetness of dew against his bare back was refreshing beyond his ability to describe. Harry curled his toes into the earth, relishing the feel of soil underfoot.

In the distance, a long tentacle rose out of the lake and crashed back down, sending a spray of water almost all the way to the shore.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Did you know that the common or "garden" variety muggle can jump an average of sixteen vertical inches?_

 **Chapter Five**

Stones flew up from underneath Harry's feet as he ran towards the lake. The Hogwarts' grounds were sloping here, but the earth was dry from the summer sun. He didn't slip or stumble; even when his foot caught beneath a branch he managed to twist out of the way at the last moment and keep a steady pace. The night air was as invigorating as a spray of water on his face.

Soon the grass gave way to a rocky shore. Damp, sandy soil clung to the soles of Harry's feet. He paid them no heed, and carried on running straight towards the lake. The water held his weight for one step, and then a second, and then Harry's manic focus cracked and he sank up to his ankles in icy silt.

Harry paused, and sighed wistfully. He'd nearly had it that time.

A thestral cried out in the distance. Tiny waves lapped at the base of his legs.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to keep me waiting all night?"

Fronds of water plants caressed his bare leg. The sensation tickled at first, but then a reed wrapped itself around his leg like a vice, and yanked him to the ground. Something changed in the air, as if there had been a soundless thunderclap.

Harry fell heavily into the water. The harsh slap of the lakebed against his skin stung more than the fall from the tower had, and knocked the wind out of his lungs from both the force of the impact and the sudden coldness all over his body.

"I do not come when summoned, boy!" boomed a voice which seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The flock of thestrals in the background quieted, and a flock of birds rose in loud panic from their nests in trees along the shoreline. The volume of the voice was such that it sent ripples across the surface of the lake. Harry gasped for breath, his heart thudding in his chest as rapidly as the water shook. When the lake finally stilled, Harry could see the reflection of the Each-Uisge in the water beneath him, outlined by the light of a moon several steps closer to full than the one which hung in the sky above Hogwarts.

"You say that," said Harry, his voice still tight from the blow. "But I summoned you. And you came."

The creature roared again, this time without words. With a crackle, ice began to form on the surface of the water, rushing towards Harry. Within moments it had frozen him in place, thickest around his legs and arms where the ice climbed up his limbs like winter manacles.

Each-Uisge's reflection was defined much more clearly in ice. Harry could see the heavy grindstones of icicles which made up its teeth as they were barred in a fierce snarl.

Harry pushed himself up, but couldn't get any leverage from the awkward position in which he lay. He struggled and flexed, but couldn't break the ice. Each-Uisge laughed, a wicked sound like an avalanche in the dark.

He paused. He breathed. And he found the hoofprint of the Each-Uisge's magic laced through the ice. With a twist of will he snapped it, returning the eldritch power to its owner and turning the frozen manacles back into mere frozen water. Harry stood easily, the ice rupturing and falling from his as easily as a blanket had he sat up in bed.

"I know how to free you!" blurted out Harry before Each-Uisge could respond. "I've gathered everything I need."

The beast surged forward, rising out of the water not in flesh but as a dripping apparition of nearly-frozen water. It huffed, and mist engulfed Harry. It brought its head down to touch his chest.

"The night when _gealach_ fills the sky and the dark of the year begins. Samhain. That is the night for curses to be broken and fealty sworn. Release me, and all the power I can bring to bear will serve you for an eternity."

The mist rising from the creature hissed, and the temperature plummeted even further. It lifted up its head until its multifaceted eyes were level with his. While the rest of its body was blurred by the distortion of falling water, its eyes were the same carved grey crystal they had been when the aughiskey had stood in flesh before him.

"But mark me, Finder! Fail, and I shall release you from the burdens of life. I will drown you on dry land and mark the spot where you fall with a mistletoe tree."

Each-Uisge's illusory body fell away, leaving only the reflection of moonlight on the planes of its eyes and teeth. Soon they were gone, too, and Harry stood alone in the lake. As the magical presence which had filled the air began to fall away, Harry began to realise how cold he was. His skin was turning blue, and white spots had begun to form on the backs of his hands. He hurriedly stepped out of the lake, and shook himself as close to dry as he could. His toes felt like coals as they burned in the night air.

Grimacing against the pain, Harry trudged away from the lake. He looked over to the tower where his rooms lay. A window was lit, perhaps two floors above his. It looked like the headmaster was still awake. Harry stared at it longingly for a moment, imagining the soft orange glow to come from the warmth of a fireplace, and then he curled his toes into the hard earth to feel the caress of the earth.

He turned away, and strode towards the forest.

xXxXxXxXx

Harry woke to an umbrella poking him in the small of the back.

"Er," said a small mountain. "Yeh alright there?"

Harry turned over, blearily opening his eyes. The sun had almost come up, and the watery light of dawn just barely made it through the thick foliage. He yawned, stretching his shoulders and wiggling until he was comfortable in the bed he'd dug out of the loamy forest floor. A leaf lodged itself somewhere unspeakable. With a groan, he fished it out, and sat up.

Somewhere in the distance a bird was singing rude limericks about its genitals to attract a mate, and the leaves trembled under a mild breeze. Dewdrops were clinging to the grass, but the grass was fairly sparse this deep into the forest, replaced instead by thick tree roots and a carpet of fallen sticks. Harry had dug a shallow bowl out of the forest floor, creating a cosy indentation in the soil to keep the wind off him. It held him more comfortably than any bed ever could. He didn't truly feel the cold, and the boughs of the oak tree overhead sheltered him with a feeling of homeliness which would never come from stone walls.

"Best bed in Hogwarts," said Harry, stretching once again. He blinked twice, and stared up at the newcomer. "Who are you?"

The mountain puffed himself up even further, crinkling eyes which hid like beetles behind a mass of wiry hair.

"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts."

"Why are you," began Harry, before remembering the events of the night before. "Oh, yes. I forgot. Hogwarts Minimum-Security School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, right?"

"Er," said Hagrid, fidgeting nervously with his umbrella. Despite his massive frame, he shuffled nervously from one foot to the other like a schoolgirl being asked to a dance.

"I'm Harry Potter," said Harry. "Kept under keys on the grounds of Hogwarts, I suppose."

Hagrid stared for a moment, and then pulled Harry out of the hole in the ground into a bone-cracking hug.

"Little Harry!" he exclaimed. "Not so little now, after all, eh? I don't suppose you remember me, do yeh?"

Harry stared at the other man. What little of his cheeks were visible under the beard were flushed red with excitement as much as the early morning air, and he positively shook with anticipation. He looked so earnest that Harry almost said yes, but something about the other man made it impossible to lie to him. It would have been like lying to a puppy.

"I can't imagine forgetting you easily, but no. Have we - have we met?" he asked doubtfully.

"Oh, yeh were only a tyke, so no wonder yeh don' remember. I was the one who - well, never mind tha' now, I'm an old friend o' yer mum and dad."

"My mum and dad?" asked Harry. He cocked his head in confusion. "But I was hatched from the bud of a mistletoe flower on a night with no moon." Hagrid froze, and lessened the pressure on the hug. Harry gasped for breath with no small amount of gratitude.

"What was tha'?" Hagrid asked, looking stunned. Harry felt a twinge of guilt deep in his chest. His constant desire to mess with people was no good here. There was something too naive about the gentle giant holding him.

"Nevermind," said Harry quickly. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask yeh the same," said Hagrid. "Dumbledore mentioned you were coming to stay for a while, but what're yeh doing out in the forest? It's not safe out here."

Harry pushed himself free from Hagrid's arms, and dusted himself off. A particularly twiggy patch of mulch had somehow congregated in his belly button, and he did his best to knock it loose discreetly. It came with being a restless sleeper; nobody could creep up on him at night, but he also wound up covered in bits of tree. He had to take the good with the bad.

"When, exactly, did he say I was coming?"

"Oh, about a week ago, or maybe two. I'm not sure. Aren't yeh cold?" asked Hagrid, studiously looking Harry in the eyes. Harry feigned ignorance, and shrugged. There was a cool breeze in the early morning, but that was as good as a coffee - or at least the closest you could expect to get when sleeping naked in the forest. Hagrid shouldered his way out of his thick coat. Harry attempted to protest, but his words were muffled by a metric ton of fabric landing on top of him a second later.

"Really, I'm fine," said Harry, attempting to push the coat back at Hagrid, who looked away, and refused to accept it. "I'm not cold." Hagrid stammered out an unintelligible response, and Harry sighed. For no reason but the other man's embarrassment, he put the coat on. Although Harry wasn't a small man, it completely dwarfed him. "Hagrid," he said. "Your coat's going to get filthy trailing through the mud like this."

Soon Hagrid had escorted Harry almost all the way to the Great Hall. They stood in the Entrance Hall, Hagrid once more looking awkward, and Harry once more standing naked in the morning chill.

"Hagrid, we're inside," insisted Harry. "Take your coat back. Look, you're clearly cold. I can see you shivering."

Hagrid looked away, and refused to even meet Harry's eyes this time.

"Put it back on!" he cried. Harry rolled his eyes, and attempted to toss the coat over Hagrid's head. Hagrid was far too tall, and the coat far too heavy, so it crumpled into a pile on the floor.

Something rapped Harry on the head. He whirled around to see an older woman there, wand held imperiously a few inches away from Harry's head. He began to protest, but was cut off by the sudden appearance of conjured clothes all over his body. They were plain brown robes with a Hogwarts crest over the heart. With a small pop, boots appeared beneath his feet and hoisted him up an inch as their thick soles forced their way into existence.

Harry glowered.

"Mr. Potter," she said, a mild Scottish accent elongating her vowels. "There is no formal dress code for staff members, even probationary ones, but I must insist that you at least dress."

Seeing the stern look in the woman's face, Harry swallowed his protests and followed her into the Great Hall. When her back was turned, he kicked off the boots, which had somehow gotten unlaced on their own. They tumbled across the floor and came to a stop when they crashed into the foot of a suit of armour which stood posed as a guard to the hall.

Harry strode past her, trying not to smile, and crossed the hall to where Dumbledore sat at a long trestle table.

"Good morning Professor!" he sang out.

"Hello Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore, offering a nod to Professor McGonagall. "Do take a seat. You as well, Hagrid."

A few other teachers were sitting with them. A sour-looking man with a hooked nose and long, greasy hair was at one end of the table. An empty chair sat between him and the next man, who was as small as Hagrid was large. Everyone else had empty plates, obviously waiting for the others to arrive before they started their meal. The man with greasy hair alone had been eating; stains of miscellaneous food debris stained his plate, and there was a croissant in his mouth.

"If you'll excuse me, Headmaster," he said, voice muffled by the croissant. "I should really get back to my work, or Poppy will have a short stock come September."

"Come now, Severus," said Dumbledore, an inscrutable expression flickering over his face. "Surely it won't take you all of two months to replenish a few bottles of Skele-Gro and Pepper-Up Potion."

Snap took the croissant out of his mouth, using his free hand to snatch a second from the bowl in front of him.

"It may," he said evenly. "If I am not permitted to observe my brewing."

Dumbledore sighed, looking sad for only a moment before smiling once more.

"Of course," he said. Snape began to walk away quickly, never once looking in Harry's direction. Rather than walking past the newcomers, he made his way to a small side door at the back of the hall. "Severus!" called out Dumbledore to his retreating back. "Will we see you at dinner?"

"Perhaps," he replied, in a tone which seemed to say no.

"I don't know why you bother," muttered the small man sitting nearest to him. Dumbledore shushed him quickly, and gestured for Harry and Hagrid to sit down. Hagrid took the seat where Snape had been, not caring that the crockery had already been used and spearing a rasher of bacon. He piled the empty plate next to him high first and handed it to Harry before he began to take any food for himself.

"I always find myself at odds on the first night in a new bed," said Dumbledore, eyes crinkling at the corner. "How did you sleep?"

"Like a baby," said Harry.

"In more ways than one," muttered McGonagall.

xXxXxXxXx

Harry hefted the bucket up higher, balancing it on his hip for a moment. He sighed, and watched Hagrid bumble up the track behind him. Hagrid was carrying a bucket in either hand, each one stuffed to the brim with raw meat, just as Harry's was. Harry cracked his neck and strode forward, curling the sleeve of his robe around the handle to prevent the metal from digging into his skin.

There was no real reason to stick around Hogwarts, but he saw no need to make an enemy of the Ministry of Magic in his first week as part of the Wizarding World. As he picked up a fallen piece of meat to stuff it back in the bucket, he began to wonder if he'd made the right choice. The meat was a peculiar colour tinged with green. Harry tried not to speculate on its origin.

"Hagrid," he said. "Remind me where we're going, would you?"

Hagrid beamed, and caught up with Harry in a few strides.

"We're taking these dragon steaks into the forest. Really nourishing, yeh see? Full o' vitamins and magic that yeh don' normally get around here. I brined 'em in a nutrient potion, too. Just one bite helps yeh grow bigger and stronger."

Harry looked back down into the bucket. The meat was cut into roughly ball-shaped chunks, each one about the size of both his fists put together. He ran through the list of carnivorous creatures he'd expect to encounter in Scotland. It was relatively small.

"All the wolves I've seen so far look like they're a healthy weight," he said hesitantly.

"Oh. Uh, no, it's not fer the wolves," said Hagrid. "Or the werewolves. They, uh, make do for themselves." Harry put a hand on the trunk of a fallen tree and vaulted over it. A bowtruckle chittered at him, and ran up the back of his arm. He plucked it out of his sleeve without looking, and placed it back on the tree, only for it to leap off a second later when Hagrid picked the tree up and hoisted it off the path.

"You can't mean it's for a bear?" he asked. "I know there are still a few living in magical Britain, but teaching a bear to take food from people so close to a school is a terrible idea."

"No! Not a bear. Too much meat's not good for 'em anyway. Fish and berries is what yeh'd want to give a bear," said Hagrid. Harry frowned, wondering what other creature Hagrid could be feeding. He'd seen the herd of Thestrals on their way into the forest, but Hagrid had passed them by. Unicorns wouldn't eat meat, and nobody would feed a troll. Harry sniffed the air. The acrid tang of magic was everywhere, but even over the beacon of Hogwarts in the background and the ambient hum of the forest itself, Harry was certain he'd have been able to sense a dragon. No, he was sure there hadn't been a Hebridean Black in the forest for years.

"Hagrid. What kind of creature are you feeding this growth serum to?" Harry turned to face him, blocking the narrow path. "Come on, mate. You're obviously avoiding the question. You're about as subtle as a Squib in a wand shop."

"Speaking o' wands," began Hagrid, not meeting Harry's eyes. "I can' help but notice yeh don't have one either."

"I also don't have an umbrella," said Harry, electing not to bring up the way Hagrid's umbrella handle shimmered in his other senses with the tell-tale aura of dragon heartstring. Hagrid blushed. "Oh, come on, then," said Harry, deciding to drop it. He knew he'd find out what creature it was soon enough.

"It's fer Aragog," said Hagrid. "He's bin lookin' a bit peaky lately. I was hopin' a treat migh' perk him up a bit."

"And Aragog is?"

"An ol' friend."

It wasn't much longer before their path took a downwards turn, and they wandered into the sunken hollow between two hills. The forest grew close and dark here, but there was still enough light to make out the gigantic spiderwebs. Harry looked at them in disgust. The ambient magic of the Forbidden Forest was different here, as if the music was being played on a different scale just off the edge of hearing. More than that, it was shrill and piping, and bled through into Harry's other senses as he struggled to process the unfamiliar information. It felt a little like a heavy crowd of people in the distance, all of whom were blowing dog whistles.

Something crunched underfoot. It felt like an old twig, but light dappling through the leaves caught it at a particular angle and Harry saw a flash of white. He plucked it from the ground and held it in the air, tilting it into a small patch where sunlight penetrated the gloom to get a better look. It was a bone. A rib, definitely, although it was so badly damaged that he couldn't guess which animal it might have come from. Pockmarks along the length of the bone looked a little like it had been chewed, but also a little like it had been corroded in some kind of acid.

Harry raised it to his mouth, about to taste it to see if he could determine what manner of beast it came from. Just before it touched his tongue, he thought better of it, and drew the bone away. He flicked it into the undergrowth, aiming it for the nearest node in the uncanny rhythm of magic around him.

There was a thud, and a shriek, and then fangs.

A spider the size of a small car leapt at Harry's face.

"Hagrid, no!" shouted Hagrid, rushing forward to grab the Acromantula and wrestle it to the ground. It writhed and spat, but, incredibly, did not attempt to bite him. The shadows all around them moved, and what seemed like a hundred spiders of sizes varying from that of a small dog to a single monster as large as an elephant with a leg span which seemed almost twenty feet long.

Harry tensed. He was never truly unarmed, but here he stood on unfamiliar soil and couldn't see the sky. He bit his cheek, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He breathed deep, readying himself for the confrontation to come. His sinuses flooded with the smell of ozone as he began to move his mind into the pattern of thought necessary for blood magic. He opened his hands wide, fingers splayed - and then he paused.

The spiders weren't coming forwards, and Hagrid no longer appeared to be wrestling the spider so much as embracing it. Something clicked in Harry's mind, and he let the blood trance fade away.

"Did you just call that Acromantula...Hagrid?" he asked.

"This here's Aragog's eldest," said Hagrid, letting go of the spider and standing back upright. The spider clicked its mandibles together and brushed up against Hagrid, butting its head against him like a cat looking to be petted. Hagrid laid a hand on its carapace and scratched it fondly. "Named him fer me, he did. Brought me right deep into the forest to show me this clutch of eggs, first one already crackin' open. Said he was gonna call 'im Hagrid Junior! Proudest moment o' me life, when I became a grampa."

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. He felt a twitch in his forehead, and tried to resist the urge to grind his teeth together. The lingering vestiges of blood magic crackled against a disquiet mind, and he let the embers of promised destruction mellow into white noise. He knew he'd pay for that later. His blood magic was a sword which must taste blood before returning to its sheath. There were other ways to cast blood magic, of course. But those methods were so lacking in style that he didn't care to consider using them. He turned his gaze back onto the spider Hagrid had embraced. The coarse bristles on the ends of its legs were catching in Hagrid's beard as it pawed at his face. Harry stared at the unlikely couple in disbelief, but Hagrid stood there and allowed the arachnid to fondle him as if they were shaking hands.

The acromantula turned its gaze on Harry, at least six of its eight eyes, and skittered towards him. Harry resisted the urge to take a step backwards, instead allowing the crackle of shuttered blood magic to rise back into his awareness.

"Acromantula are supposed to be indigenous to Brazil, aren't they?" he asked. Hagrid beamed, and Harry felt his heart sink. He watched as Hagrid greeted another acromantula which had dared to wander out into the open, and tried not to speculate as to how a man could form such a close relationship with a colony of gigantic cannibalistic spiders. "Wait," said Harry, realisation suddenly hitting him. "If you're his grampa, does that mean you're the one who raised him?"

"Nah, don' be silly!" said Hagrid. "I raised his da, Aragog. Where is your da, anyway?" he asked, before turning back to Harry and grinning sheepishly. "The little uns aren't so good at speakin'. I taught Aragog meself, raised him from an egg, but they don' really talk out loud amongst themselves."

The acromantula tapped its legs against Hagrid in a rapid shuffling motion, almost vibrating against him. Hagrid squinted, screwing up his face until he was just a mass of wrinkles on top of a beard.

"Er," he began. "What was tha'?" He looked back over to Harry and shrugged. "I'm not so good at understandin' them either, so it's fair enough, yeah? Say again?" he added, addressing the spider once more. Hagrid Junior repeated his peculiar motion, and understanding dawned on Hagrid's face. "Aragog's a bit deeper in the colony," he said. "Bit o' trouble along the border with the centaur territory, sounds like,so he's bin stayin' home of late."

"Centaurs, Hagrid? Really? What kind of open border policy does this forest have? Introducing a foreign apex predator which rapidly reproduces into our fragile local ecosystem, sure, why not, that's always good for a laugh, but why on earth would you bring a herd of the single most rapacious breed of sentient onto school grounds?"

"Centaurs?" repeated Hagrid, looking confused.

"Greeks!"

"Centaurs don't really care much for wealth, Harry," said Hagrid doubtfully. "An' Aragog's kin may like a meal as much as the next folk, but there's no animal as is much different in my experience."

Looking at Hagrid's guileless expression, Harry couldn't help but give it up. He shook his head, and looked back at the spider, which was wriggling backwards and forwards ever so slightly with what appeared to be pent up energy.

"Is it alrigh' if Hagrid says hello to you?" asked Hagrid. "Touch is real important for them, y'see. They have lots o' eyes but they don' work the same as ours do." Harry eyed the fangs which were as big as broadswords, and hesitated. The acromantula may not have been a threat to him, but even if the fangs wouldn't penetrate his skin, he didn't want them slobbering all over him. Hagrid must have mistaken Harry's disgust for fear, because he gave Harry a thumbs up and grinned. "Nah, nah, don' worry. He knows yer not food. Er. Yeh did wash yer hands after breakfast, didn't yeh?"

Harry sighed. The taste of tin in his mouth was a constant reminder that he was just a thought away from turning Hagrid into jam and the spider into a worse flavour of jam, but he continued to ignore it. He supposed that it was too late to complain now. The webbing was thick around the clearing, and as he grew more accustomed to it, the flickers of acromantula lives all around him grew more numerous to his senses. There were hundreds of the creatures in the forest, at least.

"No wonder there are no good honest British dragons around," he muttered to himself, before opening his arms. "Alright Hagrid Junior, come give your Uncle Harry a hug."

The acromantula's touch was soft, almost delicate. Somehow that made it worse. Harry had to struggle to stop himself from jerking away from the creature. Every instinct screamed to him that this was a predator looming in front of him. His fight-or-flight reflex was definitely saying fight, but it was also saying fight from a distance. Knowing that behaving like prey would only help to convince the acromantula that he was prey, Harry kept himself held firm in position. One of its mandibles brushed against his left cheek, and he closed that eye immediately. It was one thing to let a spider touch his face, but it was another entirely to let it taste his eyeball.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was done, and it scuttled away. Harry drew in a relieved breath, and tried not to shudder.

"There, that wasn' so bad, was it?" asked Hagrid. "Now we can go meet Aragog. He'll be tellin' his brood all about yeh, of course, but that'll go a lot further now tha' yeh've met Hagrid Junior."

"Why exactly will Aragog be telling all of his spider pals about me?" asked Harry. "Particularly sociable species, are they?"

"They like a bit of gossip, alright. But mostly because yeh'll be coming by here fairly often and I wouldn't want yeh ter get eaten."

"What possible reason could I have for coming out to visit an acromantula colony? Hagrid, this is your weird hobby, not mine."

"I'm gonna be away from the castle fer a little while. It's one of the reasons why Dumbledore picked you up to help look after things. One of the jobs I've got for yeh to pick up is visitin' the colony. Yeh can get the nutrient potion from Snape, and jus' brine some meat in it. Any kind will do, but dragon goes down a right treat. It does them good to see people. People they aren't allowed to eat, that is. Dumbledore gets a mite tetchy when they forget that students are supposed to be off the menu." Hagrid paused, and looked at Harry with a grave expression. "They're only spiders, Harry. Spiders cannae remember fer shite."

"Do they eat students often?" asked Harry, sensing the aggregate of spider lives thickest in the clearing just ahead. Following Hagrid's lead, he also paused, and was glad of the opportunity to peer into the darkness and get a feel for the layout. Just in case anything went wrong.

""One o' them Weasley boys was wandering in the forest. The youngest, uh, Ron, I think. Musta bin him, 'cause the others went around as a pair and Ron had ter explore on his own on account of not having friends. Figures he'd get attacked by an acromantula. I told 'em! I told 'em a hundred times not ter go wanderin' around in here. His mum made such a fuss, but he barely got penetrated."

Hagrid scratched his beard, and placed the pail of meat on the ground for a moment. A spider which barely came up to Harry's knee came running up. Hagrid brushed it away with his foot, albeit gently. It sank its fangs into the thick leather of his boot and hissed.

"Aren't they venomous?"

"Yeh can't poison a boot, Harry," said Hagrid. "The fertilizer on me pumpkin patch woulda done me in long since if yeh could. Besides, she's far too small for her venom to be up to much yet."

There was a cracking noise overhead, like dry branches tearing in the breeze, and a colossal leg came down between the two men. It flickered to and fro, questing for the young spider. Hagrid reached out with one hand, and patted it on what passed for a knee. "Don't worry mate, she'll tire herself out before long."

"I must be firm with the young, Hagrid," boomed a voice in the distance, made resonant in multiple overlapping tones, as if several people were speaking at once, but ever so slightly out of synch. "Children are beings of chaos, and a father must have laws of iron to keep them in order. You taught me that, if you recall."

A mound of earth which Harry had mistaken for a small hill suddenly rose up. The ground shuddered as it came into sight as the largest acromantula yet, and the motion of the soil was a quake beneath Harry's feet as it rose upright. A pair of smaller spiders, each perhaps the size of a horse, had been crouching atop it. They both leapt off and found a new perch on the lower branches of nearby trees.

"Stay in the box, Aragog," the monstrous beast intoned. "Stay locked in a box which is locked in the cupboard. Be still and be silent and wait for food. Do not eat humans. Eat the cats whenever you can. Ah. Fond memories of a happy childhood. And so do I raise my own children, in turn."

"Aragog, this is my friend Harry Potter. He's going to be visitin' yeh while I'm away."

Aragog clicked his mandibles together, and leaned forwards, an action which felt to Harry much like a house collapsing on top of him. By the time its movement subsided, it was almost touching Hagrid, who stood nestled between the protruding black orbs of its eyes.

"You're going away?"

"I told yeh last time I came by, remember."

"I forgot. Will you be gone long?" he asked.

"Probably not too long," said Hagrid. "Jus' a trip to Europe. Maybe a month, maybe two. But it could be a bit more if things get out of hand, so we'll have Harry coming by to keep yeh company until I'm back."

"Will you be coming back? Do you promise?"

Harry couldn't help but stare at the spider, which had adopted a plaintive whine like a small child despite being larger than that child's entire home.

"'Course I promise! An' Harry will be come and visit yeh every week. I'll write to him, so he'll read the letter to yeh, alright?"

Aragog swivelled his head around to face Harry. His eyes all appeared to be different sizes, the largest of which was larger than Harry's head. Being this close to the creature, his senses were almost overwhelmed by the unnatural buzzing of the acromantula's magic. He grimaced, and to resist the urge to close himself off.

"Are you good at reading?" he asked Harry doubtfully. "What's the longest word you know?"

"Floccinaucinihilipilification," replied Harry.

"Oh. That's a good word. What does it mean?"

"It's something a lot of people would feel about being told to bring snacks to an acromantula colony."

There was movement in the shadows, and like liquid carpet the forest floor undulated with the arrival of endless spiders no bigger than a housecat. Hagrid rolled his eyes.

"Shouldn'ta said tha', Harry. Even the babies know what snacks are." He hefted the pail up and rested it on his waist, holding it out of reach. Some of the braver spiders tried climbing his leg, but Aragog stamped twice on the ground, sending shockwaves strong enough to rustle the leaves on the trees overhead, and they fell off. Hagrid picked out a choice piece of meat and held it over his head. The spiders reared up onto their back legs, waggling the front pairs in the open air. Harry stifled a laugh at the absurd sight, and then promptly swallowed it again when Hagrid threw the meat. It was torn apart in an instant, and as soon as it was gone, the spiders lucky enough to have taken a bite were bitten by their siblings who seemed so eager to get the snack that they would eat their way through another spider to take it from their sibling's stomach.

Hagrid whistled, and the fight paused. He held another morsel out, and repeated the scene. This time he grabbed another piece, and quickly threw that one as well, aiming it far away from where the first chunk had landed.

"Harry, join in 'ere," he shouted. "Spread 'em out, and they won't have to fight so much over them."

Harry picked out a piece of steak, and raised it to throw. Before he could even get his arm level with his shoulders, a particularly belligerent acromantula, this one about the size of a labrador, pounced at him, trying to steal the treat from his hand. Harry's badly frayed nerves finally reached breaking point, and at the sight of outstretched fangs flying through the air towards him, the background hum of blood magic rose to a new crescendo. The bones in his fingers thrummed as if struck by lightning, all the nerve endings burning and muscles seizing up. For a moment Harry's bones seemed to be illuminated against his skin, lit by an inner fire. He backhanded the spider in mid-air, and the impact was a crack of thunder discharging.

The spider screeched, and flew through the air to strike the trunk of a nearby tree. It fell to the ground, writhed, and then came to stillness on its back with its legs curled inwards. Smoke rose from its corpse.

All around the clearing, the spiders went still. Harry tensed as well, preparing for a fight. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, igniting that tiny spark of friction with the air, and curling a ball of lightning no bigger than a thimble into the palm of his hand. He held his hand cupped, the magic out of sight from the creatures around him, yet also held ready to throw.

And then Aragog laughed.

"Oh, capital, Hagrid! Every day I tell them, mind your manners or I will kill you and eat you. And still they are not respectful. Perhaps this will teach my children to be polite when I am not watching. I like this friend of yours."

Harry took a second piece of meat from the bucket. This time nobody charged him. A few acromantula crept closer, but they all kept a safe distance of several metres. He released the ball lightning, and it fizzled out against the loam.

"So long as you're not expecting me to bring you students to eat, I'm sure we can learn to get along," said Harry, tossing more and more treats out to the young spiders. Aragog sighed mournfully.

"Mosag tells me that the young humans are so tender and sweet, but it is forbidden."

"Yeah, that's one rule I'm not too keen on breaking. I'm not really a rule person, but that seems like a good one."

Aragog shifted his bulk, settling back down in the same position he'd been resting in before. Now that the bucket was almost empty, Harry left the throwing of treats to Hagrid, and carefully picked his way through the carpet of spiders to where their patriarch lay. The weight of their magic against the warp and weft of the world was heaviest around Aragog, and the best way for Harry to acclimatise his own magical senses was by proximity and exposure. He sat down beside the giant spider and leaned against one of his legs. If he allowed himself the delusion, Harry could almost pretend he was resting against a tree.

"I could bring you some muggles, maybe," he said in a low tone, quiet enough that Hagrid could not hear.

Aragog clicked irritably.

"Faugh! Muggles. Sour and brackish and empty of magic. No, I would rather eat venison. Or horse."

"Really?" asked Harry. "You can taste the magic?" That seemed like a useful trick. Adapting the abilities of magical creatures was one of the sources of his magic, after all. As distasteful as Harry found the acromantula, perhaps there was potential waiting for him in the secrets of their magic.

"We taste all things, Harry. Such is how an acromantula sees the world. We feel the vibrations in air and matter, and colour those impressions with the tastes we collect through the hairs on our bodies. RIght now I can taste the earth and the rock and you."

Suddenly conscious of the hairs rubbing up against him on the back of his neck and poking through his clothes, Harry did his best to suppress a wince. The sensitivity of an acromantula to minute vibrations was too much for even the best poker face, however, and Aragog chuckled in response. It was only a little terrifying.

"What do I taste like?"

"The air before a summer storm."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Some days later, Harry was settling into his role. A castellan was more than just a caretaker. He needed to be the castle's steward, quartermaster, and overseer. Typically a castellan would be responsible for the assignment of quarters, the distribution of labour, and all the other aspects of castle life which helped a feudal kingdom flourish. As Hogwarts wasn't a working castle, replete with peasantry and tradespeople, Harry's role was largely diminished. He was technically in charge of all the house elves, but that was largely meaningless as they were a self-managing bunch. When he'd asked them how he could assist, they'd been very politely offended and asked him to leave the kitchens.

So it was that he found himself wandering the grounds in search of something to do, whereupon Harry made a new friend.

A heavy tangle of branches slammed into the ground, missing Harry by a hair. He strode forwards undeterred, avoiding the repeated strikes by the narrowest of margins. After a few more strikes, the Whomping Willow pulled back all its limbs in preparation for another blow.

"Bring it," muttered Harry, lightly hopping on the balls of his feet.

The Willow moved. Harry leapt forwards, hands outstretched to catch the offending tree in its tracks. An opalescent dome appeared around him without warning, and his fingers drove straight into its impenetrable edge. They bent backwards underneath the force of his leap. Harry winced at the sudden pain, and then slammed head first into the barrier.

He slumped against it, sliding to the ground, and nursed his head. The tree beat its branches against the shield furiously, but to no avail. Upon seeing that it had no way to hit Harry, it lost interest, and creaked back into an upright position.

"Mr. Potter! Are you alright?" cried Hermione, running over to him. Harry groaned, and rolled over.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were getting on, and good thing I did, too!" she exclaimed. "That's the Whomping Willow! Didn't Hagrid warn you? If I hadn't been here, you would have taken a nasty bump." The shield vanished, and Harry slid even further to the ground. Rather than picking himself up, he elected to moan in pain and rub his aching head with aching fingers.

"I can handle a tree," said Harry scornfully. "You're the one who injured me."

"It would have been worse had the tree struck you, I promise," she said. "I got into a scrape here in my sixth year. It was only a glancing blow, but Madam Pomfrey said that I could have lost the arm if I hadn't come to see her in time."

"I haven't lost a fight to a tree for months," said Harry. "I can give you some pointers if you want to try for revenge."

"You see? You're clearly concussed."

"No, I'm just belligerent," he replied.

"Get up, I'm taking you to the nurse."

"I like it where I am," muttered Harry. Hermione grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him up. He resisted, shaking his arm loose, and rolling over.

Harry was in a petulant mood, so he drove his still-sore fingertips into the loose soil. It was already dry from the summer heat, so it only took a faint suggestion from magic to desiccate the earth beneath him. There was a tremor as the subsoil shrank and dried, water evaporating into a tiny plume of steam. Something shifted below ground, and Harry began to sink into the earth.

"Mr. Potter, head injuries are very serious. We need to get you to Madam Pomfrey."

At this point, more than half of Harry's body was underground. He waved at Hermione, then put his arm back down, sinking it into the ground as easily as if it was water.

"Do the roots whomp as well?" he asked.

"What?" Hermione finally noticed what was happening to Harry, and redoubled her efforts to pull him up. She managed to shake some dirt loose from his sleeve and wiggle his arm about, but everything below the elbow was stuck fast.

"The Whomping Willow," said Harry. "Do the roots move as well? I'm going to try a new angle of attack. It'll never see me coming."

"Oh Merlin, did it grab you with one of its roots? I thought they couldn't move!"

"Please save me," drawled Harry, sprawling out even further. "They're chafing my bathing suit area." Hermione whipped out her wand and pointed it just beyond Harry's head. Harry's eyes widened in horror, and he tried to gesture for her to stop, but the ground was now up to his wrists. "Bombarda!"

Harry swore as pebbles flew like shrapnel, striking him on his already sore head and his unprotected face. Hermione dove to the ground in an attempt to cover her face, landing neatly on top of Harry. The ground had already been weakened by Harry's magic, and the sudden arrival of her extra weight caused it to finally collapse.

They fell through the ground into a tunnel below. Harry's head struck a tree root, and he groaned once again. Thankfully it did not move, although on the other hand it would have been nice if it had moved out of his way. Small rocks rained down on them like shrapnel. Hermione took the brunt of them, although Harry's face was uncovered, and the pebbles drew a number of sharp stinging welts across his cheeks and forehead. Something long and slender also struck him across the face. Hermione's wand, dropped as she fell.

A cloud of dust slowly began to settle. Hermione spluttered through a lungful of earthy air, while Harry had taken the precaution of holding his breath. He waited a minute or two for Hermione to stop coughing before he tried breathing in, taking advantage of her distraction to slip her wand inside his robes, tucking it into his waistband. She clearly wasn't to be trusted with it. The dust tickled at his nose, and he repressed a sneeze.

"Why is it," she gasped out. "That everywhere you go, there are holes in the ground?"

"I was planning to quietly slip through to this tunnel here, actually," replied Harry. "There was no need to destroy the hillside like that. That one's on you." Hermione was quiet for a long moment, and Harry let her stew. As her breathing evened, her body rose and fall against him in a manner that would have been pleasing if not for the bruises he was collecting everywhere else.

Harry could feel a lump rising on the back of his head where he'd been repeatedly accosted, so he reached up and gently pressed it back in. The healing process sparked at his touch, and in moments the pain was gone.

"The roots don't move, do they?" said Hermione at last, her voice dangerously quiet. Harry couldn't make out her expression in the dim light, but could guess it well enough from the way that her lithe frame suddenly stiffened against him. But not in a good way. Suddenly full of the urge to get some distance from her, survival instincts flaring, Harry unceremoniously shoved her off, dumping her onto the ground and using a rock as a handhold to lever himself back to standing.

"Why would you ask that after blowing me up?" he asked, unable to resist the urge to poke at her further now he was out of arm's reach.

"I don't know, Potter!" she snapped. "Perhaps I was eager for any opportunity to cast an Exploding Charm in your direction." She breathed deeply, clenching and unclenching her fists for a moment as she gathered herself. Harry watched on in interest as she visibly pulled herself back from the point of frustration and exerted self-control once again. In command of her faculties once more, she patted down her robes, and then scoured along the floor with her hands. "Have you seen my wand?" she asked, a note of panic entering her voice.

Harry snorted. Typical wizard. Or witch. Whatever. Take their crutch away and they were scarcely more than a muggle. It was honestly disgraceful. He opened his mouth to say as much to her when he felt a sudden twitch at his crotch.

Hermione had a look of concentration on her face. After a moment the concentration deepened to the point of constipation, and then her lips began to move in the shapes of inaudible words.

"Accio," she said quietly, a minute later. "Accio. Accio!" she shouted. Harry winced, putting one hand to his ear and the other to his crotch, where Hermione's wand was driving itself at an unfortunate angle between his belt and his left testicle.

"Stop that," he hissed, speaking to the wand. It gave a last spiteful jerk, then went still.

"Sorry," said Hermione. "It's just - my wand. I can't lose my wand. And I can't summon anything without my wand, so I can't find it!"

"Shame I'm not a wizard," drawled Harry. He'd meant it mockingly, but Hermione's shoulders slumped.

"I didn't mean," she began guilty before breaking off. She swallowed, and looked directly at Harry. Or at least as near as she could manage. Her gaze actually went to the patch of darkness just past his shoulder. "No, I'm sorry. This was all my fault."

"Well, I did bait you," admitted Harry.

Hermione sighed.

"Yes, I know that, Mr. Potter. I was trying to be gracious." She sighed again.

"In light of the circumstances, perhaps you could call me Harry," he said as a peace offering. Hermione gave him a wry smile.

"I suppose decorum was out the door after I blew you up. Oh, very well."

Daylight spilled in through the hole they'd fallen from. They found themselves in a low, long tunnel which seemed to pass under the tree. The roots grew thicker in the direction of the tree, passing over the floor of the tunnel in rising parallel lines, almost like stairs. The roots formed a series of crude steps leading up to the base of the Whomping Willow. Harry stooped over to investigate them, and his fingers found a series of iron pegs stapled into the roots, restraining them with the flavour of old magic. Harry bent over, leaning so close to one that he was touching it with the tip of his nose. Ignoring the earthworm wriggling close to his face, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Beneath the malodorous feel of the tree against his senses, Harry could feel an almost familiar magnetic tugging sensation. He turned his head in the direction it pulled him to, and opened his eyes. He was staring directly into the wall of the tunnel, nothing more than bare earth and rock. And yet he knew beyond any doubt that in this direction lay Hogwarts castle. More specifically, the headmaster's office.

"So you're the one who dug this tunnel, old man," he said to himself.

The tunnel twisted away into darkness. There was no way of telling how far it went, and even to Harry's eyes, it was difficult to see. He placed a hand on one of the tree's roots and let his mind reach out to it. To make up for its poor behaviour earlier, he siphoned off some of the Whomping Willow's power. Somewhere far above, it ground its branches together to make a harsh grating sound which was the closest the tree could come to screaming. He took his hand away after only a moment, but it had been enough. The root he'd been touching crumbled into grey ash, leaving the tree's spirit weak enough for a seed of Harry's will to bury its tendrils inside.

He felt a burst of sudden light and awareness as the tree's mind, such as it was, brushed up against his. It was rage and helplessness and strength.

"Is that the way out?" Hermione asked, interrupting his contest for dominance with the Whomping Willow's spirit. He allowed his will to recede, leaving the tree to drum its branches against the ground in victory, unaware of the splinter of Harry's magic left behind inside it. Harry glanced up the slope a little way. From his position, much further along the tunnel than Hermione was, he could see an opening between the thick roots through which daylight shone. He grinned.

"No, not up here!" he called back, making his way back down the steps to where Hermione stood. "That was just a dead end. I think we need to go this way."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Harry, we've been walking for twenty minutes and haven't reached anything. Surely we should just go back. What if there's a cave-in and we can't find our way to the Whomping Willow again?"

Harry turned to face Hermione. It was pitch black. He could see fine. She was covered in dirt from falling over. She couldn't see at all. He grinned. She couldn't see that, either.

"This tunnel isn't going to collapse," he said.

"What makes you say that?" She seemed to narrow her eyebrows, but it was hard to tell. They blended in so neatly with the lump of muck that was coagulating on her forehead.

"Look at how long it is. We must have walked for a mile, right? And all this time, it's been roughly the same size. That doesn't just happen. Somebody made this tunnel. And given the fact that we've seen no supporting beams, or anything like that, it must be held up by magic."

"There could be beams, for all we know!" she cried. "We wouldn't be able to see them if there were."

Harry felt a flush of shame for the first time in all of his taunting of Hermione. He could see just fine. It wasn't quite the same as normal vision, focused more on texture and sound and magic overlaid onto the world around him, but he knew exactly where he was going and hadn't ever so much as slipped. Hermione had rattled around the tunnel like a rodeo clown on lsd.

"Actually I can see," he admitted.

Hermione ground her teeth hard enough that he could see it, sound flowing out of her mouth like little sparks against the velvet backdrop of his oaksight.

"Even if you can," she bit out. "The absence of any signs of construction doesn't mean this has to be magical. The world is full of weird things that defy explanation. Like you."

"I promise you, there is magic holding this tunnel together. It won't just fall in."

"But it did!" she exclaimed. "That's how we got here. An Exploding Charm has no power to destroy magical protections. You'd know that if you'd ever gone to Hogwarts, you - you squib!" She flushed bright red immediately. Harry couldn't see the colour, but he could tell it was there by the way heat rose in a susurration of the air from her cheeks, deepening the textures his magic perceived. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice stretched almost into a wail. "I shouldn't have called you that."

Harry snorted with amusement. He tried not to laugh, as she looked genuinely remorseful. She took a step too close to the tunnel wall, so he grabbed her by the hand and tugged her back towards the centre.

"I collapsed the tunnel," he admitted. "A root didn't grab me, so how else could I have been sinking through the ground?" he reasoned. "I was weaving my way through the barrier with my magic, and then you blew the whole thing up while it was weakened."

"You're not a wizard, though," she insisted. "You told me so yourself."

"Yeah, I'm not a wizard," Harry agreed. "I'm something else. I was trained as a druid, which is something else entirely."

"But-"

Harry stopped, pulling Hermione around to face him, and leaned forwards. He gently touched his forehead against hers.

"See for yourself," he said, pushing his sight into her eyes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The earth shook beneath Harry's feet as his vision split, double-images blurring in front of his eyes. He cursed, and stamped his foot against the ground to steady it. He could see through the minds of an entire colony of ants without blinking, but the added complexity of layering his mind through Hermione's without disrupting it, and yet still holding the tether to the seed left in the spirit of the Whomping Willow was difficult. It was like juggling knives underwater while smoking a cigarette.

Hermione let out a yelp. Whether at the sudden quake or the way her vision suddenly bloomed with the vivid details of Harry's magic, he couldn't tell. The earth stilled, and they stood there, the two of them, staring at one another. Harry had expected her to be looking around at the world in wonder, but instead she was staring at his groin in annoyance.

"Harry," she said, at long last. "Is your penis ten and three-quarter inches long?"

"Thank you for asking."

"Give it here!" Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her wand back out of the folds of his clothing. It was illuminated under the power of Harry's oaksight which they both now revelled in. For all his contempt for wands, it was a thing of beauty, outlined in waxen sapphire and trailing moths of spectral flame as Hermione moved it through the air. She waved it back and forth between them, at first as an angry gesture towards Harry, but slowing as the sight mesmerised her. "Is this my wand?" she asked, awestruck.

"Not the wand," said Harry quietly. "The part you're seeing is the magic. That's all you. The wand was only ever a shortcut. A fragment of a magical beast's spirit left with you as a hollow totem to show you how to speak to the secret currents of the world. Once, wizards would let living beasts guide their spirits, and their magic was a vibrant thing, as full of life and character as the creatures which taught them how to wield it. But now all you have are wands."

Hermione continued to stare at her wand. She moved it in the pattern of a spell, a swish and flick. The moths coiled together like a spring, then erupted from the tip in a tight fountain, holding a rock from the tunnel floor aloft. Harry reached out and took the rock from the air. The ghostly moths alighted on his hand, wings beating slowly back and forth as they nuzzled his fingers.

"Do you see the way their wings smoulder like flame at the edges?" he asked. Hermione nodded, leaning closer with wide eyes. "That's a spirit of elemental fire and air. A pale memory of the dragon whose heartstring lies inside your wand, like a reflection caught between two mirrors, diluted in an infinite corridor of repetition."

Hermione reached out to touch one of the spectral insects. While they had interacted with Harry like solid creatures, it dissolved at her touch into lilac mist. Her face fell with sudden disappointment, but the mist settled down on her hand and permeated her skin, tingling as it disappeared and turning her expression back to wonderment.

Harry felt the rise of joy from the pit of his stomach at the sight of her face. Perhaps these wizards were not beyond hope, after all. He had worried that they had become too settled, too muggle in their bureaucracy and mundanity of spells and civilization, but for the first time he began to wonder if they would still be open to wonder if given the chance to see magic as magic and not simply a tool.

"Why are they shaped like moths and not a dragon?" she asked, earning a genuine grin from Harry.

"That's an important question," he said. "And it truly does matter that you thought to ask." He turned his hand over, curling his fingers loosely closed over a moth. With his other hand, he pulled Hermione's hand up, palm upwards, and then he placed the moth onto her skin. She let out a gasp of delight as tiny feet pattered across her hand.

A moment later she looked back at Harry, lips quirked up into an amused expression.

"Don't think this will distract me. Answer my question."

"You are the answer," said Harry. "Like I said before, a wand is a hollow totem. The reflection of a spirit but with no substance. The substance - the soul of the wand - why, that magic came from you, and together you formed something new entirely, neither dragon nor Hermione but entirely magical."

"That sounds wonderful!" cried Hermione. "If you've known wands were so marvellous as this all along, why have you been so huffy about them?"

"How marvellous does an egg seem when you compare it to the dragon itself?

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"If you don't stop playing with that, you'll go blind," said Harry. They had continued walking along the tunnel, and been doing so for quite some time. In the distance he could see the flickers of magic. They'd been walking downhill at a steady rate, climbing down the hillside.

"Oh hush," said Hermione, ignoring him in favour of continuing to explore her wand. She poked the moth, still cradled gently in her hand, with the tip of the wand. It shied away from the poke, and leapt off her hand. She tried to close her hand around it, but was too slow.

Harry clicked his tongue in annoyance and shut her off from his oaksight. She cried out as darkness surrounded her once more.

"Harry!"

"Hermione!" he whined, mimicking her. She attempted to kick his shin, but missed. "Put your wand in your pocket and I'll give you oaksight again."

"I'm not a child!"

"Wand in pocket! Hands where I can see them!" said Harry.

"Ugh," she muttered, but did as he asked. Harry snapped his fingers, and once more the world spun as he adjusted to the double vision, seeing out of her eyes as well as his. He could have left the enchanted sight with her as a more passive effect, but it was best to supervise directly when someone was new to the oaksight. It helped prevent accidents when they got overexcited. Thankfully the earth didn't shake- Hermione's subconscious hadn't fought him on the way in this time. If anything, her mind had been wide open and welcomed him in. Harry wondered whether that was because of her change in emotional state, or simply because he was better at it the second time.

"So, that spell's called oaksight?" asked Hermione, shaking Harry out of his train of thought. He shook his head.

"No. That wasn't a spell."

"But it's clearly magic!" exclaimed Hermione.

"Spells, cantrips, hexes, these are all words to describe a specific effect, right? Words and motions and wands all doing the exact same thing to do the exact same thing?"

"Well, not really," said Hermione. "The caster's intent can alter a spell a substantial amount to create advanced or even compound effects, for example -" Harry held a hand up, cutting her off as a lecturing note began to enter her voice.

"Broad strokes, Hermione. Levitation spells lift, exploding charms go boom. Are you with me?"

"Yes," she said, clearly biting her tongue to hold back a reply. Harry watched a conflicted expression furrow her eyebrows and wrinkle the corners of her eyes in frustration as her curiosity and desire to lecture warred with each other. Her curiosity seemed to win, for she allowed Harry to speak.

"Spells are ordered magic. Magic locked in tiny little boxes. What I do is opening the box, building a bridge between my spirit and the spirit of the world around me. It lives inside all of us, but with practice a druid can learn to recognise that a piece of us lives inside it, too. And we can see ourselves through the eyes of a god."

"You mean you're communing with some kind of nature deity?" asked Hermione.

"No!" said Harry sharply. "And yes. But only a little. It's not a person, or a personality. It simply is. You could think of it as the compound entity formed from every living creature, every plant and rock and thought and feeling. But even that's just a convenient lie. It is that thing which is not a thing at all. It is and it is not at the same time. We cannot comprehend it through our own minds. The human brain was never meant to work like that. We can only understand it by looking through the filter of its mind, and in that understanding of the natural world we gain power over nature itself."

"That's rather circular," said Hermione. "I'm not so sure you understand what you're talking about at all."

"I don't! That's the point."

"But are you making it on purpose?" she asked.

Harry laughed, and shrugged. "How could anyone answer that and know their answer was the truth? Think of me as some fanatic nature worshipper if it makes things easier for you. It isn't the truth, but it has the same shape as the truth."

They turned a bend in the tunnel, and only a dozen feet in front of them a band of electric-blue sparks cut across the roof, perhaps a metre or two across. On either side of the tunnel there were heavy wooden beams for extra support, runes for stability scorched into them where they met the cross-beam holding the roof.

"What? This is odd," said Harry. "There's a big metal line here. Dripping with magic. Hogwarts' outer walls, perhaps, at the edge of the grounds? I thought we passed them ages ago."

"There's no metal in the walls. They're solid stone, only carved to look like blocks on the outside, but with a solid core. I read it in Hogwarts: A History." Harry gave her a sideways look, and she blushed. "I thought it was a really good example of how wizarding architecture differs from muggle engineering! I think I know what this is. We must be under the Hogwarts Express. Or at least the railway for it."

"Hogwarts has a train?"

"Hogwarts is famous for her train! How do you not know that?"

"I grew up in a forest and was taught to read by a deer," said Harry. "I think I'm doing well, considering."

Hermione put her hands on her hips, and gave him a stern look. After a moment she laughed, and the serious expression slipped.

"I can't tell if you're being serious or not," she said. Harry shrugged. "If this is the Hogwarts Express line, that must mean we're almost at Hogsmeade. That makes sense. Where else could a tunnel this long be leading to?"

"Hogsmeade? What is that, a brewery? Is this tunnel the secret construct of an alcoholic Dumbledore, slipping out every night to chug mead and pick up local witches?"

"Hogwarts is ancient and full of secrets," said Hermione dismissively. "This tunnel is probably centuries old."

"Just under thirty years by my count," said Harry.

"What, really?" she asked. Harry nodded, peering as far ahead as he could, to where he could just about make out the shape of some stairs. They were ordinary wood, rickety and somewhat gnawed, so they were dim and hard to make out against the glow of enchantment that was building up all around them. Some kind of protective ward. Harry reached out his senses to poke at it, and felt nothing prod back. Whatever this was, it was designed to keep something in, not keep intruders out.

"More druid magic, I suppose," she muttered. "Can you teach me how to do that? All of - whatever this is."

"No," said Harry flatly. "I've passed my apprenticeship, but I'm still only a journeyman druid. I can assist in the teaching of my master's students, but I'm not permitted to take on students of my own. Not until I become a master druid myself." He strode ahead, reaching the set of stairs just ahead of Hermione. He poked again at the wards, harder this time, just in case. They still remained completely inert, but for a moment the air hung stale in his lungs, filling his nostrils with the scent of wolfsbane and sweat. His chest tightened, heart thumping with a sudden sensation of claustrophobia. And then he breathed out, and the moment passed.

"How do you become a master druid?" asked Hermione.

Harry breathed in, and then out again deeply, shaking the vestiges of discomfort from himself.

"Traditionally a craftsman becomes a master when he performs some great work of his craft - a magnum opus, if you will. A carpenter might make an elaborate set of furniture, and a candlemaker might create a set of strong white lights to fill the chandelier in a grand cathedral."

"What would a potter make?"

Harry grinned. "Pots," he said. "But this Potter isn't a craftsman. I'm a druid. So for my magnum opus I'm going to hunt down and destroy the greatest blight in the world of magic. There is a cancer growing in the living heart of the world, fat and indolent in dark power, yet mighty without any peer in the tame modern world of wands and spellbooks and Ministries of Magic. Voldemort is the pus in the wound of modern magic, and my great work will be his death."


	7. Chapter 7

**7:x**

"I think we're inside the Shrieking Shack," said Hermione.

"Come again?" Harry looked around, squinting against the dim light. He'd let go of the magic running through his vision, relying instead of the narrow beams creeping in from between the wooden boards which made up the ceiling of the musty cellar they had climbed into.

"The Shrieking Shack," repeated Hermione. "It's just on the edge of Hogsmeade."

"A brothel and a brewery? Dumbledore, you sly old dog. I guess we know what keeps that twinkle in his eyes."

Hermione made a disgusted noise, and made her way across to the ladder up into the ground floor. She peered upwards, and then suddenly froze.

"Quiet!" she hissed. "I think somebody's up there."

Harry brushed past her, and made to climb the ladder. As soon as his foot touched the first rung it gave an alarming creak. While he could smell the bitter tang of enchantment in the wood holding it together, that only prevented it from collapsing. It did nothing to stop it from sounding as old and worn as something three times its age. He could even see deep furrows in each of the steps, as if something had been chewing on the thin pieces of wood. Harry lifted his foot back off gently, and it creaked again, but not quite so loudly.

"What is that, three metres high?" he muttered, taking a step back and attempting to measure the distance to the next floor.

"About eight feet, maybe?" she whispered back.

"Use the metric system, you animal."

"Wizards still use imperial measurements," said Hermione. She frowned, giving Harry an odd look. "I'm surprised that druids don't."

"Oh, the old man did," he said. "I don't. Because I'm not an old man. Time moves onwards, and we've gotta move with it. I have an LED instead of a glowing crystal on the end of my staff. Very modern. Very chic."

"You have a staff? Isn't that just a big wand?"

Harry snorted. "Do you know what the primary use of a druid's staff is?"

"A walking stick?" asked Hermione, voice thick with sarcasm. Harry winked, and nodded at her. She blinked. "What, really?"

"Well, maybe that's the secondary use. First and foremost they're used for beating unruly apprentices."

"Did your master beat you?"

"Only when I had it coming," he said, squinting up at the opening over his head once again. He tapped his foot lightly against the cellar floor. It moved ever so slightly, the wooden boards underfoot as loose and worn as those on the ladder itself. He inched his way cross, testing the ground with his weight until he found the point where the board was anchored and didn't move.

"He beat you," she said, this time with utter certainty in her voice. Harry grinned. He was glad to see she was beginning to understand him. A phantom welt on his back twinged, and he rubbed at it ruefully before crouching down, tensing the muscles in his leg like springs. He twisted just so, letting the potential energy in his limbs build until they prickled with a sudden onslaught of pins and needles.

"I may have been a bit of an," he paused, searching for the right word. "Irredeemable little gobshite."

Harry didn't stop to hear Hermione's response, instead choosing to leap vertically upwards, more than two metres in the air. His forearms went clear through the opening at the top of the ladder, and he caught himself on the ledge with a muffled grunt. The meat of his arms slapped against the floor, and he winced. Tiny pieces of gravel or glass or wooden splinters drove into his arms. Repressing a curse, he pushed against them to lever himself up, out of the cellar.

The room on the ground floor was also empty, but there were clear signs that somebody had been in here. There were footprints among the muck on the ground, and the furniture appeared to have been smashed apart and badly repaired over and over. Harry twisted to glance back at Hermione, who was glaring up at him. He put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and crept to the foot of the stairs.

The door at the top was closed, but the murmur of voices crept through the cracks in the frame. Harry stilled, and listened, and made out the faint clink of glasses. Not a trespassing homeless person, then. They didn't tend to carry glasses around with them. He breathed deeply, trying to catch a sense of who they were. The air was rank with thirty years of enchantment under pressure, the strain and sweat and sinew of a beast in a cage. It was the bolted door of madness, and the place of wolves lay under it.

Upstairs the scent grew fresher and stranger. It was and yet was not the same person. Harry closed his eyes, following the trail deeper. The aura of wolves made sense with this. A werewolf would leave one imprint on the world as man, another as a beast. But there was another person beside it, beset with a similar duality yet without the bitter tang of lycanthropy. And then a faint recollection of two other besides, similarly mired in this odd duality, yet each in a different way.

He could make out two people in the room upstairs, although the scents of others lingered close about them, as if there were two others both recently departed and long gone. It was beyond confusing. Harry drew another breath, trying to make sense of it all, and inhaled a lungful of dust. He almost sneezed, putting a hand to his nose to stifle it and only just choking back a coughing fit.

He sighed. Something weird was going on here, or had gone on. And he didn't have enough information to even begin puzzling out the truth of it. A laugh came from upstairs, and Harry thought fuck it, why not just ask.

"Hey, was someone else up there a minute ago?" he called.

An abrupt scraping noise attacked his eardrums as whoever was upstairs shoved their chairs back and made for the door. It was flung wide open, and a rangy-looking wizard wearing ragged but well-mended robes stabbed a wand in Harry's direction.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice surprisingly mild despite the aggression in his stance.

"So you would be the werewolf," said Harry. He heard a faint gasp on the edge of hearing come from below, and snickered lightly. The werewolf must have caught the laugh, because his expression took on a pained cast.

"You seem to have the advantage of me, mister…?" he trailed off meaningfully, still speaking in a measured, polite tone. The other person, from behind him, swore loudly and attempted to shove past, but the doorway was narrow enough that only one person could fit there. The werewolf held up a hand, gesturing dismissively at the person in the room upstairs. "I've got this, Sirius," he said. "Pour me another glass, would you?"

"Remus!" the other man shouted. Remus placed a hand on his chest and shoved him firmly back into the other room, not once taking his eyes off Harry.

"So you're called Remus, then?" asked Harry. Remus cocked his head, looking at Harry quizzically.

"I thought you knew who I was?"

"I knew what you were, not who, which is altogether the more interesting question." At this, a faint smile appeared on Remus' face for just a moment, although the tip of his wand never wavered. He began walking down the stairs, wand held out in front of him the whole time.

"Most wizards would be nervous in the presence of a werewolf," he said. "So that begs the question twice over: who told you about me, about this place?" By now Remus was at the foot of the stairs, only a few steps away from Harry. He crossed the distance rapidly until his wand was pressed up against Harry's clavicle. Throughout it all, Harry stayed exactly where he was, just watching the genial but cautious expression on the other man's face.

For all his skill at reading the body language of flora and fauna in the wild, and the unsubtle passions of muggles which lay close to the surface in their every expression, Harry could not tell whether the man in front of him was about to attack or just putting on a brave face. He was tempted to provoke him just to see what he'd do, but conscious of Hermione skulking nearby, decided to hold back and wait for the other man to act.

"I just wandered in by accident," Harry said truthfully. "And then there's wolf fur everywhere, the damage to all the furniture. That tapestry appears to have been eaten. I grew up around werewolves. I can see the signs"

Remus sighed, and lowered his wand. Although not very far. Now the tip pointed at Harry's stomach rather than his chest - every bit as ready to strike him with a cheap shot spell, but a much less threatening posture. Harry appreciated the sentiment. And the cunning it took to pantomime that action. He wondered if the wizard in front of him had done it consciously, or if that was the influence of his inner wolf in the presence of a predator.

"You appear to be telling the truth," he said at last. "I don't know if that's better. We can't have people just wandering in. And nobody can know that we use this place. I promise you, this is for the best. Stupefy."

The spell fizzled out against Harry's stomach, falling to the floor in fat red drops like oil made out of red electricity. It pooled, and squirmed, and died when he crushed it under the heel of his boot.

"Yeah, I figured that spell out already," said Harry. He leaned in close to Remus, grinning wickedly. "What are you going to do now?"

Remus punched him square across the jaw. Harry rocked backwards, sucking the air in through his teeth in pain. He staggered for a moment, stepping backwards but not falling. Somewhere below him, Hermione shrieked, and he heard the sudden creak of the ladder as she began to struggle upwards.

Harry burst out in laughter.

"That was wonderful!" he exclaimed. "You're the first wizard I've met with the good sense to just punch me in the face." Another Stunning Spell impacted against his torso, and he brushed it off like so much dust in the wind. "Oh, come on, you were doing so well."

"Harry!" called Hermione, head popping up out of the floor. Both men turned to look at her, Remus' eyes going wide. He then looked back to Harry, mouthing his name silently.

"How did I not see it?" he muttered. "The resemblance is uncanny." He lowered his wand entirely this time, putting it away and holding his hands out in an entreating gesture. "I'm sorry for hitting you, Harry. I didn't - I mean, I'm not -" he broke off, and coughed nervously. "That is to say, I am -"

"Professor Lupin?" said Hermione confusedly, clambering out into the room. Remus gave her a wan smile, and held out a hand to help her up.

"In light of the fact that I've not been your teacher for several years now, perhaps you could call me Remus? I do keep asking, you know," he admonished her gently. A faint pink tinge rose in Hermione's cheeks, but she shook her head and changed the subject quickly.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same. In fact, I believe I did," he replied, glancing back at Harry who was poking at the patch of his jaw that was beginning to form a bruise.

"There was a tunnel under the Whomping Willow," she explained. "We fell in, and it led us here. But why are you here?" she repeated. Hermione looked around the room, at the battered sticks of furniture and grime, and then again at the ragged old clothes that Remus was wearing. She put a hand to her mouth in dismay. "Oh no, is this your house?"

xsXcxeXnxeX

"Have you considered actual homelessness?" asked Harry, glancing around the dilapidated interior of the shack. "It might be a bit nicer than this."

"Yes," said Remus flatly. "It wasn't." He held Harry's gaze for a moment, unwavering. Hermione made a small noise, and nudged Harry's arm roughly. Remus spared her a glance, still with that serious cast over his features until a sly grin broke through his mask. "The company wasn't of such rare quality as this, you see."

From upstairs, Sirius made a noise of disgust and stomped downstairs, a bottle in the crook of his arm and glasses clutched in his hand. One was half-full, precariously balanced on the edge of his palm with the others held between his fingers.

"Oh boo hoo," he cried in mocking tones. "I'm a werewolf, I lived on the streets - woe. Is. Me. Get over it, hippy. I was homeless once too, you know."

"For six hours," said Remus dryly. "Before you went to sleep at the foot of James' bed like a stray he'd taken in."

"This is by far the strangest home invasion I've ever participated in," said Harry to Hermione quietly.

"You're trying to mock me," declared Sirius grandly, gesturing out with his arms as if addressing an audience many times larger than the pair of interlopers standing before him. "But! It will not work. For that's a pretty damn good description of me, and only a weak man takes offence at the truth. Now finish your drink, you whiny hobo."

Remus rolled his eyes and raised the tumbler of amber liquid to his mouth. Sirius winked at Hermione, then pushed the remaining two glasses into Harry's hands.

"What's that you're drinking?" Harry asked. The liquid swirled as he watched in peculiar patterns, tongues of amber and gold flickering upwards to break the surface. Flecks of warmth like embers caught downwind from a fire rose out and upwards, drifting into the air to fill his nostrils with a heady tang.

"Firewhiskey. One for you," he said, pouring a measure out into each glass. "And one for the lady who I have yet to be introduced to."

"You haven't been introduced to Mr. Potter either," Hermione added, reluctantly accepting the drink from Harry and sniffing at it suspiciously. Remus snorted suddenly, and then burst out coughing as he choked on his drink. Sirius merely grinned.

"As a matter of fact, Hermione," Remus said in a hoarse voice once his spluttering had subsided. "Sirius has been introduced to at least four Mr. Potters, including the one standing beside you, and our dear friend James who fathered him. If you'd care to follow me upstairs, the sitting room may be a more comfortable place to explain."

Harry blinked. Huh. That was an unexpected twist to the evening. He knew he had family, of course. What orphan didn't wonder where he came from? But his magical parents had died when he was a baby, and there were no other immediate relatives but the muggles. He hadn't even thought to look for the friends of his parents. It was a sobering thought, but not in an altogether unpleasant way.

Sirius straightened up, blocking the narrow passage to the stairs. His shoulders were broad enough that they almost spanned from one wall to the other. He moved to cross his arms in front of his chest, grazing an elbow against the wall as he did so due to the tightness of the stairwell.

"Oh no you don't," he said. "Nobody is going anywhere until we drink a toast to this reunion." Harry had actually been inclined to glamour them all and leave until a minute ago. Now, however, he found himself beset by a feeling he thought he'd long gotten over - a desire to know more about where he came from.

"But you don't have a drink," said Hermione. He raised the bottle in mock salute. "I mean you don't have a glass!"

"The bottle is made from glass, woman," he drawled, and then turned to Lupin. "Honestly, man, what were you teaching those students?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts, as you well recall. I seem to remember you were my first and slowest pupil, once upon a time."

"If you taught your pupils to punch someone in the face when they couldn't get a spell to work, I have to say you've exceeded my expectations for a Hogwarts education," said Harry, dipping a finger into his glass and swirling it around. Lupin cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.

"That wasn't on the curriculum, no," he said.

"Firewhiskey," mused Harry. "I can see where it gets the name."

"Because of the way it burns when you drink it?" asked Hermione. Harry shook his head absently. He pulled his finger out of the glass, drawing Firewhiskey out with it like thread made of honey unspooling in a long golden rope.

"You see the way that there are these two different colours in there?" he asked her, his voice taking on a distant tone. "Twisting around one another like ribbons but never mixing, as if someone mixed oil and water together? That's elemental fire, distilled into a drink. Fuel and fury and all that raw potential tricked into thinking it's a beverage. What the fuck, wizards?" he muttered quietly to himself. "All we need is a source of ignition and it'll remember what it is."

Sirius snapped his fingers for attention, pulling his wand out of his pocket. He murmured a phrase and a tiny flame appeared at the tip, as if a match was stuck to the end of his wand. He offered it to Harry with a flamboyant gesture, bowing over his outstretched arm.

"Oh please," said Harry. He leaned forwards and blew gently on the Firewhiskey clinging to his finger. There was a rustle like parchment being torn, and it set alight. At first it was just the end of the thread, but then flame ran down the strand of Firewhiskey as if it was a fuse. Harry held his breath as the fire touched the body of the drink.

A silent thunderclap shook the room. Light and heat washed over everyone. The smell of Firewhiskey changed, deepened, left the alcoholic tang behind and become something which evoked the feeling of standing in full sunlight on a blazing summer day. Harry let out the breath he'd been holding in a long sigh, and closed his eyes to savour the moment. The light faded in an instant, leaving specks of burnished gold suspended in the air, motes of dust spun from pure sunlight. They slowly drifted downwards, some landing on the floor but most moving in an unseen breeze to land on Harry's skin. His skin tingled where they landed. He reached out a hand to catch some more of these specks of light, and more still moved into his outstretched hand until his palm was glowing.

Harry closed his fist and it was over.

"Well wasn't that something," said Remus at last. Sirius just stared, working his jaw in confusion for a moment before pouting.

"You didn't have any of your drink," he complained.

"I didn't put it in my mouth," Harry agreed, his skin prickling pleasantly and heart racing as he looked at Sirius with wide eyes. A giddy exhilaration rose up inside him, beginning as nervous energy in his extremities and feeding down to a sensation of lightness in his abdomen. "But believe me, I had the hell out of that Firewhiskey."

"This time," said Sirius, pouring out another glass, "I'd like you to put it in your mouth."

xsXcxExNxE

"You seemed a little surprised to see me," said Harry, fidgeting with his now-empty glass. They'd moved upstairs, and he was seated in a ratty old armchair which squeaked in an alarming manner. He was willing to attribute the noise as much to rats as to rusty springs.

"Well you did disappear as a baby," said Remus. He stared fixedly at Harry. Hermione was seated on a small sofa beside him, looking uncomfortable. Sirius was in another armchair on the other side of the fireplace, hunched forwards with his chin propped up on his hand. He, too, was staring at Harry with peculiar ferocity.

"I did," admitted Harry. "But why would you have cared? I was just another ordinary child disappearing during Voldemort's first insurgence."

Sirius shifted in his chair, glaring at the other man. He scoffed, and went to pour himself another drink.

"For one thing, they accused me of taking you."

"Huh." Harry contemplated this for a moment, really taking in Sirius' features for the first time. The man was broader than he had appeared at first, with more muscle on his frame than most wizards. The edges of tattoos could be seen poking out from his robes, and in addition to a wand he carried a large knife in a sheath at his waist. "That still begs the question of why," he added.

"Right? I've got such an honest face. Not the baby-stealing type at all. Mind you, I did try, only it appears someone else got there first. As your godfather I felt rather obliged to haul you away from those awful muggles"

Harry pulled a face. The Dursleys were rather awful. He'd encountered them once, when he'd elected to run away from his training during a rather rough patch in his teenage years. He'd gone out in search of the family his master had taken him from. The encounter was enlightening in all the worst ways.

"Ah, I see that you remember them," said Remus. "I believe that's the exact same expression Sirius wore when we heard that Dumbledore had place you with them."

Hermione cleared her throat nervously, interrupting the conversation. She winced when the men all turned their attention to her, then blurted out into the silence. "Why was Dumbledore choosing where an orphan was to live, anyway?" she asked.

"Powerful old men run the world, Hermione, that shouldn't be news to anyone," said Sirius dismissively.

"It does seem a little odd that a schoolteacher is making those decisions," said Harry softly. The other men exchanged a glance, and then Sirius leaned forwards to put a hand on his knee.

"Ah, lad, it's not so strange as all that. Dumbledore is much more than just a schoolteacher. And the Wizarding World, well, it's a tighter community than the muggle world you left behind. Families tend to sort things like this out amongst themselves rather than turning to state care and bureaucracy to look after their children."

Harry looked to Hermione for confirmation, and she shrugged.

"Although I've done the rounds in the Ministry, I've not seen that side of our world. It fits with how things are run, though. And Dumbledore's a good man. I wouldn't worry."

Harry leaned back in his chair, mulling it over.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose I can accept that. And it doesn't matter all that much, seeing as I didn't exactly stay put."

"Yes," cut in Sirius. "Where were you all these years?" Harry grinned.

"You said I left the muggle world behind. I didn't. I was never part of it. I was raised on Ynys Afallach as apprentice to the druid Brennan, heir to the traditions of Cruithne and Cinge. I come back to you now to bring true magic into the world, and guide my people into the future that was stolen from them so very long ago." He looked over to Hermione and held out his hand in a gesture of appeal. "You've seen some of the things I can do. Magic unshackled. Oh, I admit, your world has its curiosities and wonders, but magic is so much more than trinkets and tricks.

"Is that why you're here at Hogwarts, then? To teach your brand of magic?" asked Remus.

Harry shook his head. "No. I wasn't planning on showing people how to do the things I can do. That's not the point. If all I was after was someone to emulate me, I'd be no better than a wizard sharing spells. I'm going to wake up the old forces that lie dormant, bind them back to our fates, and open the hearts of our people to the wildness of the world."

xOxOxOxOx

The men talked for a few hours more, Harry refusing to go into much more detail about his past, instead getting to know the two men who should have been part of his life. At last he saw Hermione's eyelids drooping. She'd not spoken much, instead bearing witness to the reunion. With a twinge of guilt, Harry realised that the three of them had largely ignored her.

"It's a bit of a walk back to the castle," he said to her. "Did you have any more business there, or will you be heading straight home from here?"

"I still have to speak to the headmaster," she said. "Now more than ever." Harry quirked an eyebrow quizzically, but she didn't elaborate.

"I suppose I can't convince you to stay longer," said Sirius ruefully. Remus shook his head, nudging the other man fondly.

"We can't keep them all night, brother. And now that we know where Harry is, we can speak to him easily enough."

"Not so easy as all that," Sirius groused. "You refuse to go on the school grounds for fear parents will complain about a werewolf being around their children, and I can't exactly walk up and knock on the door either."

The fire crackled in the background, spitting embers out into the room. Sirius took a long pull from his drink, directly out of the bottle this time, and stared into the flames. "It was damn well worth it, though."

"What was?" asked Harry. He didn't get an answer. Sirius looked at him, then away again, staring back into the flames as if they contained an answer to a difficult question.

"He's a murderer, Harry," said Hermione.

"You knew?" asked Remus, a startled expression washing over his face. "But all this time you've been sitting with us and you haven't said anything!"

"Out of character for the goody two-shoes student who'd never dream of breaking the rules, isn't it?" she said, laughing uneasily. "I remember the name Sirius Black from my time shadowing the DMLE. Killed Peter Pettigrew and fled from the aurors. He's been wanted for murder ever since. Not that anybody bothers chasing up historic warrants like that, though the bounty still exists."

Was that why she'd been so quiet all evening, Harry wondered. Frightened by the presence of a killer? He glanced at her, and she seemed nervous, but not afraid. Her fingers were tightened into a knot where she'd wound the fabric of her robe around and around in her lap. She looked down at them, and unclenched the white digits, rubbing some blood back into them in silence. At last she looked back up at them, daring to stare Sirius straight in the eyes. He was staring back, an odd, hungry expression on his features.

"I read the reports, you see," she said. "Sirius was a suspected Death Eater beforehand because of his family connections. Peter's death was all the proof anyone ever needed to give him the title. But he'd always fought so vigorously against Voldemort - you were an auror!" she exclaimed, addressing him directly. "You fought him! Literally. Wand to wand, you fought Voldemort. It didn't make any sense that it was all an act. And then when Pettigrew's corpse was examined, there was this terrible burn all over his left forearm…" she trailed off, and Sirius nodded.

"As if he'd tried to sear the Dark Mark from his very skin," he finished

"Peter was a coward," said Remus. "He betrayed your parents to Voldemort, Harry. And then when things didn't go as Voldemort had planned, he attempted to flee from his service. But it's not so easy as that. Some vows, once made, are not lightly undone."

"Except by death," said Sirius.

"Except by death," Remus agreed.

Hermione swallowed, and shuddered slightly, pulling her robes more tightly around herself despite the warmth of the fire only feet away from her. "I always wondered," she said quietly, "but it seemed a lifetime ago, and who would know the truth? So I didn't look any further." A flicker of guilt crossed her face, and she looked over at Sirius meaningfully. Before she could say anything, Remus interrupted.

"Nobody is blaming you for not uncovering the truth, Hermione," he said gently. "It was just another forgotten injustice in a bad time. You're not responsible for the mistakes of your predecessors at the Ministry"

"But now I know! I could bring this up with my superiors, make sure that they know the truth! We could see that Sirius is given a fair trial. He was absent when he was first condemned, so we've grounds to re-open the case."

Sirius laughed suddenly, a harsh rasping bark that cowed Hermione into silence.

"It's not so simple," Remus said hesitantly. Harry could see that Hermione was poised to argue further, so he snorted and touched her shoulder to get her attention.

"He's innocent of being a Death Eater," he said. "But Sirius isn't innocent of murder.


	8. Chapter 8

Hagbloat was as repulsive as the name suggested, Harry mused, passing the mushroom from one hand to another as if it was a ball. Blue-grey spores followed in its wake, dusting up in little clouds every time the fungus impacted the meat of his hands. One of the spores floated close to Harry without his noticing, and he accidentally inhaled it.

A sharp pain shot through his nostril, and a dour mood came over him as if he hadn't seen sunlight in months. Black spots flashed in front of his eyes and his gut roiled. He shook his head irritably, putting the mushroom back in its bag. The damned thing wasn't a toy, he reminded himself. It was a rare mutation of bloatwort, which was already a potent toxin by itself. Degenerated by growing in a place where a hag had died, it held the potential for awful poisons or desperate medicines. A potion made from this would bring a man back from the brink of death, at the cost of his daughter's life. Or cure an infected wound in exchange for the use of his eyes.

Harry made his way over to the nightstand where a crystal decanter sat, full almost to the brim with water. Ignoring the cup placed beside it, he scooped a pool of water out with cupped hands and raised it to his face. He closed his eyes, and then opened his hands, more letting the water run down his face than splashing himself. As the water passed his nose, he inhaled, breathing in air filtered through the brief curtain of water.

The sick feeling of hagwort left his body. Harry sighed, clenching and unclenching his hands. An ache he hadn't noticed from sitting still too long also faded away, as did his tiredness, an itch in the crook of his elbow, and a headache from the Firewhiskey last night. Healing magic had its perks.

"Now why didn't I do that sooner?" he muttered to himself, and looked about the room with fresh eyes.

Without a hangover dogging his heels, the malaise which had caused Harry to sit about his room all morning had lifted. He stretched, rolling his shoulders back. For a moment he was tempted to leave by leaping out of his window, but the sun was already high in the sky and people were going about their day in the castle. Best not to invite that kind of scrutiny just yet. It'd be fun watching their panicked reactions to Harry freefalling almost from the top of the tower, but he had things to do today which didn't involve fielding questions about his casual disregard for the laws of physics.

It wasn't too much to ask for witches and wizards, of all people, to be more accepting of the absurd, but humans of every flavour had the tendency to get caught in a pattern of thinking which didn't allow for novelty.

The castle was a maze, so on his way down Harry stopped to ask a flagstone for directions. The stone fancied itself as a bit of a traveller, as it was on a staircase, so it was happy to oblige. With the same onerous creak Harry's head had made upon waking this morning, this staircase pulled itself away from the wall and swung to connect to a different landing on the floor below.

It'll be a quicker route, the stone assured him. Not with words, for a stone cannot speak, but with the sensation of quicksilver running over glass. Harry felt the message as a ghost on his fingertips and the nape of his neck. He thanked the stone in a manner it could understand, pressing the flat of his palm against its cool, smooth surface.

At the end of the corridor a door swung open, pushed by a breeze Harry couldn't feel. The door he'd been intending to walk through swung shut at the same time. He rapped his knuckles three times on the jamb of the door in appreciation, and turned to follow the new path.

Smells wafted upwards from the Great Hall, and he hesitated, tempted by the call of whatever remained of breakfast before the house elves cleared it away. He was surprised that food was still being served so late, but supposed that without the need to send students off to classes, Hogwarts felt able to extend the meal into a relaxed brunch. The churning in his stomach from last night's drink had put him off the idea of food, and now that his hangover was cured, eating seemed like a lively prospect.

Harry lingered in the doorway, and then moved on. There was work to be done, and he'd already frippered away half the morning.

Soon he was outside. The sunshine hit him like a physical blow, an industrious heat after the cool shade of the castle with its stone floor against his bare feet. He resisted the urge to flop down on the grass and bask in the pleasantness of the day.

"There yeh are, Harry!" called Hagrid. Harry grinned, raising an arm in greeting, and hurrying over to where the large man toiled in his garden. "I've been meanin' ter come find yeh before I set off. I just had ter put the finishin' touches on these pumpkins first."

Harry sat down on one of the pumpkins, an orange boulder the size of one of Dumbledore's armchairs. Looking at the interplay of orange and purple and grey threads on the surface of the gourd, he wondered if Dumbledore hadn't used them as inspiration in his fabric choices, too.

"They look pretty good to me," said Harry. "Dragon fertiliser, was it?"

"Aye, and a bit more besides. Special blend, it is. Proprietary," said Hagrid, enunciating each syllable of the last word slowly and carefully. Harry smiled to hear the crisp vowels, so unlike Hagrid's usual earthy cadence. Hagrid had taken his shirt off to work, and Harry was tempted to join him, bare chested in the sun, soaking in pleasant heat instead of sweating in an ocean of cloth. These robes McGonagall had conjured for him were a fine fit for inside the castle, but not so much as scorching summer day.

"We've already gone over most of the jobs yeh'll be responsible for. Walking the edge of the forest, keeping an eye out for signs of creatures strayin' out. Or students strayin' in, if need be. The thestrals and hippogriffs can tend themselves, but keepin' an eye on 'em won't do any harm. I've not trained yeh on how to handle them, so don' go foolin' around with them if there's aught amiss, yeh just go get Professor Grubbly-Plank and tell her what's happening."

"Very cautious of you, Hagrid," said Harry.

"They're gentle as lambs most o' the time," he said. "Less'n something riles them up. But you don't even have a wand, so if somethin' went wrong there'd be no gettin' you out of it." Hagrid shrugged. "I'm sure yeh could hold yer own, but Grubbly-Plank wants it this way, and it'll save yeh the difficult work, anyway." He shifted from one foot to another, looking slightly embarrassed. "Besides tha', yeh'll be lookin' after my house if you don' mind. Keys to Hogwarts hang on the big hook inside the door. Use 'em as you need - sometimes a teacher migh' call yeh to unlock a room. The gates as well, every so often. Hogsmeade trips and the beginnings o' terms when the carriages need to go through."

"And I'm setting the carriages up with the thestrals each time?" asked Harry.

Hagrid shook his head.

"Grubbly-Plank is 'sposed to be doing that. Might want you ter lend a hand, but yeh won' have to sort it all out by yourself."

"This doesn't really seem like much of a job," Harry observed. "A few errands here and there, but certainly nothing which needs a full-time staff member."

"Aye, well, Filch mostly just lurked about looking for trouble, and I don't imagine you'll be much interested in spoiling the fun for the students once they're about. Hogwarts mostly looks after herself. Sometimes the teachers will want an extra hand with things, and it's good to have someone about who can help out."

Harry drummed his heels against the pumpkin thoughtfully. It was an easy job, with plenty of free time for him to work towards his own goals. He may not particularly need money or employment, but it would serve its purpose well enough in giving him a base of operations. The reluctance he felt, he finally decided, was just his unwillingness to put himself back under someone else's thumb so soon after he'd finished his apprenticeship. He could easily go another day without somebody ordering him around. Still, Dumbledore seemed to be a gentle taskmaster, and he couldn't just wander around waiting for the seasons to turn.

"Alright," he said at last. "I guess that makes sense."

"It's a shame I can't stick around longer to show yeh the ropes, but I'll be back soon enough." Hagrid stuck his shovel into the ground, and washed his vast hairy hands against one another. He didn't really move any of the dirt off, just smeared it around, and then wiped it on his trousers. "Now, just got one thing left to show yeh before you'll be ready."

"What's that, then?" Harry asked, looking up at his newfound friend, squinting against the glare of the sun.

"You've got to meet the elves."

-0-x-0-x-0-x-0-

"A man and a giant walk into a castle. The giant turns to the man and says "tickle the pear" - why does this feel like the set up for a joke?" asked Harry, reaching up to touch the painting. The wall swung open, and a raucous din suddenly flooded the corridor. There was the banging of pots and pans, water bubbling and knives chopping, and over everything a clamour of high-pitched voices.

"So these are the elves," said Harry. At his words, every green little creature in the kitchens froze. They looked at him, and Hagrid, and cheered, then returned to their work. An elf clad in a slightly neater uniform than the others bustled up to them. All the elves wore tea-towels like togas, stamped with Hogwarts crest and bound with neat brass pins. This elf had a tea-towel edged in gilt, and had a bronze pin shaped like the Hogwarts crest in addition to the stamp on his towel.

"Castellan," said the elf gravely, and bowed to Harry. Hagrid slapped him on the back, giving a hearty chortle and nearly knocking Harry off his feet. "Welcome to the domain of the elves."

"Well met, gangmaster," said Harry, hiding a smile at the elf's severe demeanour. "How is the castle today?"

The elf gave a weary sigh, and gazed out over the ranks of elves labouring over various items of food.

"Empty of little masters, sir. Yet there's much work to be done before they arrive. This one despairs for the laziness of elfkind, that we must begin preparing so far in advance."

"That's a lot of food given how few of us are in the castle just now. Is this all for when term begins?"

The elf inclined his head.

"It takes many days to prepare a feast worthy of Hogwarts, castellan. We work now, and store dishes in the stasis pantry beneath the Great Hall. No cooking is done on the feast day, we simply send out everything we have created. It is a shame to be unable to make everything at the time, but every elf is needed to bring luggage and ready dormitories and watch the new little masters to find what needs they may have."

"Is that so?" asked Harry. As they were speaking, another elf scurried up to them, holding a silver tray covered in buttered toast. She, for this elf had daintier features, curtsied and offered the tray to Harry.

"Just so," said the senior elf. "As Thistles here has watched you, castellan, as you skipped breakfast. This will not do." He reached onto the tray, plucked two slices of toast off it, and caused them to vanish with a snap of his fingers. "Just as it will not do to get the castellan fat, Thistles," he admonished the female elf. "He will not be able to work if you weigh him down with extra blubber."

"Thistles is sorry, master!" the elf cried, in her shrill, piping voice. Harry winced at the high notes as they pierced his ears even through the background noise of the kitchen. The elder elf cuffed her on the back of the head.

"No, Thistles, this one is not a master. He is the castellan. Almost as good as being an elf." The younger elf's eyes welled up with tears, and she received another cuff. "None of that, now. Honestly, you young girl-elves are hopeless."

Harry took a piece of toast guiltily, watching the elf berate his junior. He felt obliged to step in, but the complex dynamics of elf hierarchies were not something a human could easily wadde into, and he knew he'd just end up making the poor feeble creature feel worse. To have bothered a human into intervening would feel like another slight, to elf psychology, no matter what the human said or did to comfort them.

"This toast is very good," he said nonchalantly, watching the elves out of the corner of his eye. Immediately she perked up, and the older one sighed resignedly.

"If you must coddle her, do it elsewhere," he said in disgust. "You can have her. Personal service. Go, take the little wretch."

Hagrid cleared his throat, and shuffled forwards quickly.

"Er," he began. "Harry isn't that kind o' wizard. He wouldn't take advantage of a young elf like that!" Harry sniggered, putting a hand on Hagrid's arm.

"That's not what coddle means, Hagrid," he said. The other man just looked confused, and Harry patted his arm consolingly. "I suppose I could use an elf. If you're all going to be working under my supervision, I could use someone to act as a liason."

"Yes, yes," the senior one muttered. "And to wash your socks and light your fires."

"I don't wear socks," said Harry.

"Ah, so you'll be depriving Thistles of chores in punishment for her being such a useless cow? Good, good. She can wallow in idleness at your side until she's ready to pay attention to her tasks."

Harry looked quizzically from one elf to another. Elves tended to be harsh on themselves, but even so, this display was rather odd.

"Yes Papa," she said morosely, and everything made sense. Realisation dawned on Hagrid at the same time, and his mouth formed a great wide circle of astonishment. Harry took the tray from Thistles gently, and offered him a slice. Sensing that their reception in the kitchen was wearing out, Harry gestured back towards the door.

"I think that's us finished here, Hagrid?" he asked, putting a hand on the flat of his back to steer him towards the door. It was like trying to push an oak over. "Thistles, why don't you walk with us?"

The older elf drew himself up in outrage.

"Elves do not walk seen in the corridors!"

"There are no students here today," said Harry dismissively. "Just me and Hagrid, and we both work for Hogwarts, the same as any elf."

"It is not done."

"Thistles, you report to me now, yes?" asked Harry. "I'm going to need to instruct you about your duties, so come along." He strode away, not waiting for an answer. Hagrid followed uncertainly behind, the elf lagging a few paces further back. The portrait swung closed after they crossed the threshold, cutting off the view of the older elf's face swollen and red in apoplexy.

Thistles looked meekly at the floor to begin with, but then a smirk began to spread itself across her face. Harry supposed this was the first opportunity the young creature had ever had to indulge itself in the defiance it was so often accused of. He swore to do the best he could to lead her very far astray.

"Don't go causin' trouble for that little one," warned Hagrid. "Elves have got their own ways of doing things. Don't make much sense to you or me, but meddlin' never does much good, no matter how you intend it."

"I've got it from here, Hagrid, thank you," said Harry. His brow crinkled, tiny black eyes crinkling with worry under his bushy eyebrows. "No, really, it's okay. I know a bit about how house elves are."

Hagrid grumbled an agreement, and mopped sweat from his face with a torn handkerchief.

"As yeh say, Harry, as yeh say. In any case, tha's us done with introductions, so I'd best be off. Packing to do, yeh understand. I'll be around at dinner to say goodbye to everyone properly," he said, and then lumbered off back outside, leaving Harry alone in the corridor with Thistles.

There was a pregnant silence as Harry looked in the direction where Hagrid had gone, allowing the elf to study him discreetly.

"Master," she began, flinching and catching herself, then beginning again. "Thistles means, castellan knows about house elves?" Harry turned to look at her seriously, getting down on one knee to look her in the eye.

"Theory, mostly," he said. "Of what you were and how that became what you are." The elf cocked her head in confusion. "I'm something of an expert on this type of magic," he said, putting a hand to the side of her head. "I've studied the formation of relationships through which power flows, the ebb and tide of give and take which is the bedrock of all contract rites. Like the way house elves are bound to a house, draw magic from the family who live there, then shape it and use it in their service. Everything I do is a bit like house elf magic. I don't cast spells. I make bargains with the world and the things which live in it. Things like you."

Thistles twitched uncomfortably against Harry's hand, not confident enough to pull away from him, yet unsettled by the touch of a human.

"Anyway, my point is," Harry continued, "I know enough to do this."

He reached inside the elf with questing senses, probing the creature's bright but flickering life-force until he found the knot of obligation and arcane resource that bound it to the castle. He grabbed hold of it with a hand that was not a hand, and tied a loop around his wrist. In his fumbling, he found a twisted hunk of metal worked into the magic, as if a piece of scrap had somehow wound up inside the formula for the creature's spirit. Harry frowned at it contemplatively, and examined the way it had gotten bundled up in loops of threads of the raw matter of the house elf's spirit. Surely iron had no place in the spirit of an elf, of all things?

Harry pulled away the pieces of elven firmament wound around it until it came free, and tossed the hunk of iron away, thinking to cure some infection or sickness of the spirit by doing so.

As the piece of discarded metal fell away into the air, Harry saw barely-visible scratches on the surface flare with cold light, and he saw that they were runes. He winced, but put it out of his mind. Whatever it was, it was done now.

The elf gasped, bulbous eyes bulging out wider than ever before, somehow.

"And now you belong to me," he said.

"I feel strange," Thistles said, stiffening in surprise when she heard her voice. It was deeper and clearer, free of the house-elf pidgin which cluttered their dialect.

"That's me. I'm strange." Harry gave her a lopsided smile, a grin without any humour in it. "You're now connected to my magic in the way you're connected to Hogwarts."

"This feels very different," the elf said, her voice distant as she explored her senses as best she could. "But I still feel Hogwarts alive beneath my feet, and the other elves. Am I still a Hogwarts elf? I feel like one."

Harry remained silent, watching the elf as she screwed up her face in puzzlement.

"I am still a Hogwarts elf," she declared at last. "But how can this be? An elf cannot have two masters." Harry was surprised to see the elf try to rationalise what was happening so acutely. This was more than he'd been hoping for. Somewhere in the tangled web of sorcery which made a house elf a house elf, he'd managed to drive a splinter.

"As I am currently a member of staff, there's a loophole in the bond. I've tweaked it, ever so slightly, to include me. Hogwarts is still your true master, but I've snuck myself in as an agent of your master. That's why you're only getting a tiny trickle of magic through the bond from me."

"This cannot be a tiny trickle of magic," Thistles exclaimed in disbelief. "It's many times more than I got from Hogwarts, and even shared with a hundred other elves, that's the magic from hundreds of witches and wizards!"

"Students and children, for the most part," said Harry.

"The quantity still counts for something," reasoned Nettles. Harry shrugged. He really was holding back how much he poured into the elf-bond, and that on top of how dampened it was by the contrivances of the loophole he'd created.

"If you were bonded to me in truth you'd really see what magic is like," he said.

"Why not take the bond for yourself, then?" she asked. "I would have thought it'd be easier than setting yourself up as a second master like this." Harry shrugged again.

"I wanted to see if I could do it, for one," he said. "Just taking the bond would have been nothing new. Wizards have been doing it with a bag of gold and a handshake for centuries. And I don't know how long I'll be at Hogwarts for. Seems cruel to steal you away from your home on a whim if I have to leave suddenly."

"An elf would be satisfied with having a true master to serve," she said seriously. "Working at Hogwarts is wonderful, but it's not the same as having a family of your own."

"You have your father here," Harry pointed out. She snorted dismissively, a very un-elf-like noise.

"My gangmaster. Cruel and capricious for fear of being seen to favour his own young." She grimaced. "He speaks like this, doesn't he? Not like an elf at all. I wonder why that is?" Thistles turned to glare at the painting which blocked off the doorway to the kitchen. "Is he hoarding all the magic for himself, doling out these measly portions to the elves beneath him?"

"No," said Harry dryly. She squinted at him suspiciously. "He's bound directly to Dumbledore as the headmaster. That's a deep well of magic. Enough to make any elf articulate."

Thistles frowned, and stepped closer to Harry. She raised her hands in a gesture that was part entreating, part threatening.

"If you leave, you must take me with you. I'm thinking clearly for the first time, free from grovelling in the dirt for permission to squeak. I can speak like a rational being, not a dog with a voice. I can't go back to being that - that meek little animal again!" she said, voice raising into a shout by the time she had finished. Her little hands were clenched into fists, and her face was set like stone.

"How's that for a workplace incentive?" muttered Harry to himself. Thistles stared at him, uncompromising. "This is more than I expected," he said at last. The elf's face was washed pale in either anger or terror or both. Guilt twinged in the pit of Harry's stomach like fermenting fruit. He could sense the threads of magic which made up the spirit of the elf as they began to unravel. It was just a shade of decay on the horizon for now, but whatever was happening would only continue from here on out.

"You did this to me. How about you take responsibility for it, master," she snarled. "You gave a house elf metacognition. You made a house elf know what metacognition is! What the fuck?"

-x-0-x-0-x-0-x-

"Can you feel the tree?" Harry asked. Some hours had passed, and the sun was just beginning to set. He stood outside on the grounds, just out of reach of the Whomping Willow's branches.

"Take a step closer and you might be able to feel it," she bit out.

Harry sighed.

"You're upset. I get that. But I don't regret what I did, and neither do you. It's just difficult to process. So let's process it. You've seen what life shackled as a house elf is like, so now we'll take a look at what life might be like as my elf." He pointed at the Whomping Willow, which reared its branches back in response as if challenged. "Now. The tree. Can you feel it?"

"Harry?" Thistles asked quietly, a minute later.

"Yes?"

"Why can I feel the tree - why can I feel the tree in my mind?" she demanded.

"Ah," he said, pleased. "I hoped you might be able to, with a little guidance. Describe it to me. What you're feeling."

"It's...it's almost like the way I sense the other elves. It's not strong. I sense Hogwarts first of all, which burns like the sun in my awareness, and then the elves are muted shadows on the other side. I can't really tell what they feel or where they are, only that they are. The tree is like that. But instead of being on the other side of Hogwarts in my mind…"

"It's on the other side of me," he finished. "Good." This was really good. Unexpected or not, there was potential with what was happening with the elf. If things went as he was beginning to hope, he could move his schedule forward by a matter of months.

"Harry," she said flatly. "Why can I sense the tree?"

"I left something of myself in it. An anchor. Or, perhaps, given the context, it would be better described as a seed."

"Is that a tree pun, or is this seed going to grow into something?" she asked. And then she gave Harry a dark look. "Or did you just spend the morning wanking on a tree?"

Harry spluttered at the unexpected comment, too startled to laugh. He caught his breath and then let a grin steal across his face.

"Why not all three?"

"Deviants are not welcome on school grounds," she said.

"You know very well that's not true," admonished Harry. "Not at this school." They stood in silence for a moment, and then he put a hand on her shoulder. She shoved it off unceremoniously. He put it back. "No, wait. I'm not being cuddly. I'm demonstrating. Some things go beyond words." Thistles grumbled, but obliged, and stood still.

Harry focused. The seed had only been growing overnight, and in ordinary circumstances he'd have preferred to leave it until it was ready to be harvested in full, but it would suffice for his purposes. As he'd done the night before, he reached through the tiny fragment of his power left embedded in the tree, using it as a channel to reach through to the spirit of the Whomping Willow. He hovered on the edges of awareness of the tree, a ghost in its mind, and it began to beat its branches furiously in impotent anger, knowing there was a trespasser it couldn't strike. Working quickly, for he didn't have much time before the tree would excise him from its mind, he delved down, down into the roots which bit into the earth.

And then from there he sense how the tree drew up energy from the earth, latent potential becoming magic as it moved through living cells. Harry breathed deep on the hilltop, and some distance away the tree shuddered. He pulled, and stole the power of the earth through the tree, passing it through himself in a rush like lightning, an electric avalanche of magic. His pupils dilated, and his heart caught in his chest. The wind seemed to stop, just for a second, and then Harry pushed the earth past himself into the elf.

Thistles drew in a sharp breath. She curled her toes, as bare as Harry's, digging them into the soil. The grass around her feet thickened, taking on a more lush shade of green. The dry cracks in the soil softened into loam, and a chip of broken glass smoothed over in a motion like melting to become a pebble.

It was only for a moment, and then Harry let go. The Whomping Willow raged, smashing its trunk entire onto the ground. Although they were out of reach, twigs and stones flew up from the impact, and again, and again, as the tree beat itself against the ground.

Harry's mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. He longed to touch the mind of the tree to lull it into calm, but the seed was almost spent, and wouldn't endure any further tampering. Instead he backed away, tugging Thistles from the spot where she stood and stared. He hoped the tree wouldn't hurt itself too badly before its wrath subsided, but there was little he could do about it.

"So," he said to the elf, once they were a little distance away. "Do you begin to understand?"

"It's like a bond," she said, hesitantly. "Only it's so much more, and less at the same time. Rawer, and unshaped. A connection between you and the tree and - what was that, on the other side? It was so, so big."

"That was the earth. I'm hoping to use the Whomping Willow as one of my wells - as a connection to one of the elemental sources of magic."

"One of?" she asked. "You have more wells like that? To draw on the power of what, the air, the sun?"

"Just one so far," said Harry. "The Willow is nowhere near being ready to use as a well. But you've got the idea down pat. Well done. I mean that sincerely. I know it's a lot to take in. " She grunted in acknowledgement, and looked at him intensely.

"So what elemental source does an elf get you?"

Harry laughed.

"Ah, well done," he said again. "I wondered if you would make that connection. But no, house elves don't have a connection to any of the primal elements. They're things of nature, and elves are far too domesticated. Your power is derived from yourselves and the wizards you serve."

"I see," said Thistles, looking introspective. Harry patted her on the shoulder.

"Don't look so downcast. Drawing your magic from hearth and home is nothing to dismiss lightly."

"That's not it."

"Oh?" he asked, eyeing the elf. She let out a long breath, and then looked Harry in the eye.

"How am I supposed to be useful to you, then? What's my role in all of this?"

"This was an accident. I hadn't intended or expected to change you like this. I really did want an elf to help me in my day job as the castellan of Hogwarts. I'm not showing you all of this," he said, capturing the Willow in a sweeping gesture of his arm, "to set you to a task. I'm showing it to you so you know what you're in for. The road ahead isn't going to be easy, but there are wonders like this along the way." Harry sighed, and took his hand away from Thistles' shoulder. He straightened, looking off into the distance. The tree was almost still, swaying erratically against the breeze. Every so often a branch would lash out to slap a bird out of the sky.

"Haven't you heard, Harry? Elves love hard work."


	9. Chapter 9

Before dinner, Harry dragged Thistles up the many stairs of the castle to his suite in the tower. He dug through his wardrobe looking for a presentable set of clothes - that is to say, robes which were not covered in mud. He wasn't having much success.

Thistles stood on the other side of the wardrobe door, watching her reflection in the long mirror which stretched across it, almost as tall as the ceiling. Harry could hear disgruntled noises and sighs come from her, until at last he dropped a bundle of robes torn up with brambles onto the floor, and closed the door.

"What is it?" he asked. "I can't abide huffy children, and I won't stand for my elf being in a snit instead of speaking up." Thistles took a step to one side, so she was back in front of the mirror. Harry followed her gaze. In the mirror stood a creature three feet tall, wrinkly, dirty, and green, with bulbous green eyes and long pointed ears.

"I don't feel like a house elf anymore," she said morosely. "And that's a good thing. But I still look like a house elf. Looking like this could never be a good thing. I'm filthy and wearing rags."

"I'm very often filthy and wearing rags," said Harry. "It's one of my favourite states to be in."

"The element of choice is paramount here, master," she said scathingly. "If a man chooses to play in the mud, so be it. A house elf is a dirty little urchin as a matter of course. We clean everything there is but not ourselves, it would seem."

"So bathe," said Harry dismissively. "I'm going to before dinner. For once. Don't look at me like that, you little degenerate."

"I want clothes," Thistles blurted out. She flushed, and sat down suddenly, hugging her knees. "Oh, that feels so wrong to say." She shivered, and stared at her feet.

"You're hotwired into the backdoor of my mind. If you have the attention span of a flea, you'll know that I won't forbid you from wearing clothes," said Harry. "Stop acting like such an elf, you'll give me a headache."

"Elves are set free if they're given clothes," she said. "Contract-breaker. Permission or otherwise, it doesn't matter. If you gave me your hat and didn't ask me to wash it for you, the bond would break and I'd be back to being a house elf. Only without a house."

Harry hummed. He'd forgotten about that. He bit his lip, trying to work over a solution in his mind.

"What about a uniform?" he asked. Thistles tugged at the tea-towel she was wearing as a toga, Hogwarts crest and all.

"This is as close as it gets. A stamp on a towel."

"Well fuck that," said Harry. "I didn't tamper with the natural order of things and mutate you into some new kind of free-thinking elf for you to run around as naked as the day you were born. That's my look. It's no fun unless you're not supposed to be doing it."

He strode over to where she sat on the floor, and pulled her up by the arm, not unkindly. "Get up. Come on, now. Indulging in self-pity is so passe, and I don't feel like watching you mope."

She bared her teeth at him, and Harry smiled to see some ferocity come back into her gaze.

"What the fuck did you even do to me?"

"I thought I explained that already," said Harry. "I bound myself to you as a surrogate master. Some magic bleeds through that connection. Voila." He gestured to the elf's entire body, from her angry head to her dirty feet.

"That's not enough."

Harry sighed, and leaned his head back, scratching the length of his throat.

"I don't really know how or why, but somewhere in there, I broke the servitor's compulsion. So you're connected to me, as I intended, and Hogwarts, as you always were, but the magical geas to make you submissive and subservient was displaced."

"You gave me free. Fucking. Will. You bastard."

"Divine prerogative," said Harry easily. "Welcome to the mortal coil." She growled, a low, gravelly sound reminiscent of some forgotten ancestor from when elves were wild creatures and hunted children. Not one to ever show fear in the face of an adversary, Harry stuck his tongue out.

Thistles leapt, pointed fingers outstretched like claws, teeth bared as needle-like fangs.

In the heartbeat before she landed on him, Harry snapped his fingers. There was a deafening boom, and a bright white light at the heart of a dense implosion in the air. The smell of ozone filled the room, and all of Harry's hair stood on end. Thistles was flung to the other side of the chamber, falling in a heap on the flagstones.

Harry put his hand on the wardrobe to steady himself. His head spun, and a loud ringing sounded in his ears.

"I should remember never to do that indoors," he mouthed out weakly, staggering over to Thistles. "Okay. Up." She hissed and recoiled at his touch, so he reached in and grabbed her. As soon as his hand was on her, her teeth were sunk deep into it. Harry sighed, but did not let go, and hauled the elf over to the mirror. Spots of blood welled up from where her teeth had landed, and then thickened into a steady stream as she bit deeper.

Harry had elected not to feel the pain, channeling a glamour across his own senses to dull the sensation. He lifted his hand up, forcing Thistles to look at herself in the mirror. She opened her mouth.

In the mirror was still the same ungainly green creature, now looking feral with its savage expression and bloodied teeth. Until her gaze descended to below the neck of her reflection, and she saw a delicate dress tied with yellow ribbons. She cocked her head in confusion, flinching back from the reflected motion as if it was somebody else in the glass.

"What is this?" she asked, her tone subdued.

"It's a trick of sound and light, something that people like us can do to weave an illusion. This is called a glamour. In certain stories, glamours are the trademark magic of elves. All nonsense, of course. But it doesn't have to be."

"I'm sorry I bit you," she said at long last, licking blood from her teeth like a cat cleaning itself. At the flash of red over ivory needle points, Harry was reminded that elves were descended from predators, however distant.

"It's not the kind of reaction a house elf would have," said Harry. "You're still learning what you are. How you interact with the world. Some friction is understandable, and I've allowed it so far. I'm not a monster."

"Aren't you?" asked Thistles. "Am I?" she asked, speaking to herself more than to Harry.

"You could become one, if you chose to be," said Harry patiently. "That's how choice works."

xx-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x x

"Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall in a stern voice, addressing him over a roast chicken, "it is not customary to bring one's house elf to the dinner table."

"Or to dress it up like a doll," added Flitwick, looking equally disapproving from the seat beside Thistles. Perhaps as someone the size of a house elf, he felt sympathetic to the thought of an elf in distress.

Harry answered her with a wan smile, passing a platter of soft white rolls over to Thistles. She accepted them with murmured thanks, and then passed it on to Flitwick. He sighed, and then took a roll.

"Thistles is welcome to eat with me," he said. "And to wear what she likes."

Snape made a noise of disgust from the back of his throat so loud that Harry wondered if he was choking before noticing that the man's plate had yet to be touched.

"This is just like Granger's elf welfare nonsense. She hasn't been starting on about that again, has she?" he asked. Harry was surprised to find Snape addressing him directly - the man was usually content to pretend he didn't exist, except for a deepening of his trademark sneer.

"Elf welfare?" he asked. "No, she's not said a word. What's all that about?"

Snape's lip curled in distaste. If Harry was reading his stony face correctly, however, it was a pleased distaste, and Snape was eager to answer, even if just for an excuse to complain about someone.

"When she was a student she got the most absurd notion that house elves should be freed. Hid little clothes around the castle for them and waved petitions in everyone's faces. Upset the elves, upset her fellow students, and upset my colleagues."

"But didn't bother you, Severus?" interjected Flitwick. Snape shook his head.

"I was glad to see everyone recognise her for the nuisance she was. Always had been, in my opinion, so it was heartwarming to see the school come together on the issue."

"Now, Severus," said McGonagall in the same stern tones she'd used to address Harry. For a bizarre moment he felt a faint kinship with Snape, especially at the harangued expression that folded its way around his features as McGonagall spoke. "It doesn't do to speak that way about a student, even a former one. You are a teacher, so please try to behave in a manner according."

Snape ignored the older woman, instead turning his attention to Thistles.

"What about you?" he asked nastily. "Do you think that house elves deserve more rights?"

"Severus!" exclaimed Flitwick, looking shocked. He set his fork down and twisted in his seat as if he was about to say something.

"No," said Thistles clearly, before Flitwick had opened his mouth. "House elves are pathetic obeisant subhumans fit only for the labour that's beneath the dignity of wizards. They're too stupid to want or need to be free, and happy to be enslaved." The bitterness in her voice wasn't missed by anyone at the table.

From the head of the table, Dumbledore leaned across, intrigued by the addition of Thistles to the conversation.

"House elves may not want to be free, but do you, my dear?"

"I may not want to be free," she mocked, throwing Dumbledore's own words back at him. She scowled, and bit into her roll. "But I may need to be free."

"Have you considered releasing your elf, Mr. Potter?" asked McGonagall. "She's clearly unhappy. She may not be human, but she's still a living, thinking creature." Harry choked at the audacity of somebody else telling him that after the day he'd had exploring the depth of how that creature could live and think.

"Elves aren't cheap, Minerva," said Snape, of all people. Dumbledore looked at Harry expectantly.

"Don't you fucking dare," Thistles growled. "Don't make this all for nothing."

"Well," said Harry," there you have it. In any case, she's not really mine."

"Whose is she, then?" asked McGonagall.

"Her own, mostly. Although it's going to be a bastard convincing her of that." Thistles gave Harry a startled look, as did McGonagall, although for a very different reason.

"Mr Potter! Language! There may not be children here but this is still a school!"

"How did you manage to fuck up an elf that badly?" asked Snape gleefully.

"Looking for pointers, Severus?" asked Flitwick. The men exchanged venomous looks, and then Snape turned away to grab a bowl of roast potatoes, dumping them onto his plate. One fell onto the floor, rolling over to Thistles. It passed through the immaterial fabric of the dress which wasn't really there, and impacted against her foot. She flinched, and then buried her face in her plate to hide the reaction.

"Is that a Hogwarts elf?" asked Dumbledore. Seeing Thistles' hackles rise, he coughed, and tried again. "My apologies, my dear, I should not have spoken as if you were not here. Are you one of my Hogwarts elves?"

"Yes," she said sullenly.

"Only by a technicality," added Harry.

"Are you well?" The headmaster's gaze was full of grandfatherly concern, eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles. A bit of mashed potato clung to his beard, almost invisible against the white hair save for the splash of gravy.

"Better than I have ever been," Thistles answered honestly. "Although I'm very confused. And frightened. And angry."

"And this is a good thing?" Dumbledore asked, digging deeper. Thistles cringed, and answers fell from her lips as if they'd been torn out.

"If I wasn't angry, this couldn't be happening. And it's good that this is happening."

The headmaster opened his mouth to ask another question, but Harry cleared his throat suddenly, holding up a hand as well, pleading for the headmaster to stop.

"Before you ask Thistles any more questions, Professor," Harry said, "please consider that as headmaster of Hogwarts, you are compelling her into answering questions she might not want to discuss at the dinner table." Dumbledore paused contemplatively, stroking his beard. His hand came across the fragment of stray potato and he popped it into his mouth as he thought.

"Very well," he said. "We can delay this conversation for the length of a meal. But I do insist. The wellbeing of Hogwarts staff is paramount, no matter what their height."

The rest of the meal proceeded awkwardly, for a time, and then a new conversation struck up and everyone was distracted, save for occasional glances at Harry and Thistles. Harry boldly met the gaze of anyone who looked their way, whereas Thistles hid her face with a hunched posture and downwards hung head.

Soon enough, the plates were cleared away and Dumbledore beckoned Harry and the elf into an adjoining sitting room. A number of bottles and glasses had already been set up around the cozy armchairs.

"Apologies, Severus," the headmaster said. "Our little chat will have to wait, if you don't mind terribly." Snape shrugged, uncorking a bottle.

"I confess, I'm curious about the elf as well," he said, taking a seat opposite. Dumbledore gave him a steady look. That had clearly been intended as a dismissal, and Snape clearly knew that very well. He met the headmaster's look until the older man sighed and gave in.

"So, Harry," said Dumbledore. "You've succeeded in getting my attention. I'll cut to the chase, shall I? What is it that you want."

"Thistles," he said immediately. Dumbledore nodded in response.

"Yes, that was rather what I had expected." He poured Harry a drink, and then looked towards the elf, hesitating. "Would you care for a drink, Miss Thistles? It is quite strong for an elf, I fear."

"Don't be absurd, Albus, you'll kill the damn thing," said Snape. "And killing a house elf is as much a waste as giving one away might be." He fixed Harry with a belligerent look. Harry returned it with a mild one, unwilling to let Snape's attitude bother him at all.

"That's the thing," added Harry. "I'll buy her fairly. Market value, whatever that is for an elf. But not right away. She needs to remain under Hogwarts' ownership a while longer."

"Interesting," said Dumbledore.

"Can you tell why I'm asking this?"

"I can surmise a few possibilities, Mr. Potter, each as extraordinary as the next."

"No, Albus, you're misunderstanding," said Snape. "He's not inquiring after your famous powers of deductive reason. He's inquiring after your even more famous powers of magic."

"I'm impressed that you can tell," said Harry sincerely. "I didn't think anyone at the school but the headmaster might be familiar with such an uncommon form of magic for a modern wizard." Snape snorted.

"Much as I'd like to claim esoteric knowledge is my field of study, this was just legilimency."

Dumbledore peered over his glasses again at Thistles, who shriveled under the scrutiny, huddling into the sofa cushions and trying to make her body small. The reaction seemed to displease him, and he leaned back away from her, doing his best not to loom over the small creature.

"I'm at a loss, Severus?" he asked, bewildered. "All I see is a house elf."

"That," said Snape with a manic bleakness dripping off every syllable, "is no longer a house elf."

"Mr. Potter, are you experimenting on this poor creature? I know you're not without certain skills I'm unfamiliar with, but the transmogrification of sentient beings is not something which should be done lightly." Dumbledore looked as serious as Harry had seen him yet, a stark contrast to his usual affable self.

"It may seem a great deal like I am," Harry admitted. "Which is why I've staged this discussion tonight. Thistles didn't especially want to come to dinner, but it was necessary for you to meet. She'll be spending some time helping me from now on, and I don't feel like sneaking her around keeping this a secret. You may observe changes in her. She no longer acts or thinks as a house elf does. This may be a lot coming from your newest staff member, but I'm asking you not to intervene, and to sell her to me if I ask." Harry glanced down at Thistles by his side and sighed. "I suppose at this point it's when I ask, isn't it?"

"To be brief, Potter," cut in Snape, "why should he?"

"Well," said Harry, "first, and perhaps most important, so I want you both to pay attention to this point - I will simply take her if I have to. I am capable of severing the magic which binds her to Hogwarts without so much as a flick of a wand. You cannot stop me. You will not stop me." Harry paused, and smiled disarmingly. "But I'd much rather reach an amicable solution if we can."

"An agreement is always better than a dispute, I should say," said Dumbledore cautiously.

"This is just a statement of intent to commit theft," complained Snape.

"Yes," said Harry. Both men stared at him, and he smiled again. "What, were you expecting me to deny it? Legally a house elf is property. In this particular instance, I disagree that Thistles is either a house elf or property, and will act as such if need be. And yet it'd be much more convenient to have your assistance than your enmity, so I figured I'd just tell you what I'm doing. I've broken the servitor's geas on Thistles. Although her bond to Hogwarts remains intact, she no longer has the innate compulsion to servitude that all house elves are born with."

"I see what you mean, Severus," mused Dumbledore. "No longer a house elf indeed."

"Her mind is wild and fragmentary," said Snape. "I can't make sense of much. But it's not how a house elf thinks. It begs the question - what is she?"

"Whatever she decides to be," said Harry mildly. Dumbledore frowned.

"I worry, my boy, that perhaps when you say that, you actually mean 'whatever you decide she should be'.

"Then I had best decide wisely, hadn't I?" asked Harry rhetorically.

Snape groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, let it be, Albus." he exclaimed. "One more small ugly creature running around shrieking when it wants to rather than when it's supposed to. Isn't that what a school is for? May as well put the Sorting Hat on its head and enrol the damn thing."

"I'm surprised to hear you so lax about the matter," Dumbledore said primly.

"It's already done. You're not going to fire Potter over this, no matter how appropriate that might be, and you're not going to enslave the elf again or turn it out onto the streets. There's only one outcome here. I know you feel we have a responsibility to run through a vigorous philosophical debate before we tread new ground, but I'm tired. I'm opting out of the argument. Potter, remain here and discuss it with the headmaster as you wish, but that will be your outcome. Take it now or take it in six hours with a hoarse voice and sore head." Snape stood, and made to leave the room. As he reached the door, he paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Not one word of this to Granger. For as long as possible. She will be insufferable."

And then he was gone. Dumbledore deflated, all the sternness gone from his countenance and replaced with worry.

"Please tell me it's just the one elf," he begged. Thistles openly laughed at that.

"There's only one of me," she said, and laughed again, showing her teeth in a row of sharp-edged razors.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"On your left, Thistles!" shouted Harry. The elf ducked, dodging under a swinging branch of the Whomping Willow, and stabbing her finger into the knot at the base of the trunk which froze the violently overgrown shrub.

Once it was still, Harry jumped up from the grassy knoll he'd been sitting on, and jogged over to her.

"In here," he said, gesturing into the tunnel opening. "It's been caved in a bit, but there's a tunnel if you follow down this hole a ways. You should fit through it fine at your size. It was a bit of a squeeze for me."

The elf peered into the darkness curiously, only taking a small step down into the hole.

"And why, pray tell, are you showing me this tunnel?" she asked suspiciously. Harry shouldered his bag off, and handed it to her. She lifted the flap to peek inside. There was a clink of bottles, and then the smell of hot food wafted out.

"Oi, close that," said Harry. "I had the kitchen elves put a stasis charm on the bag to keep it fresh, but it doesn't work when it's open. The charm can freeze time in a little pouch, but not for the whole world."

Thistles tutted.

"And why aren't you doing that charm for yourself?" she queried pointedly. "Lost your wand?"

"I'm the other way around," he told her with a deadpan expression. "I can't selectively stop time in a sealed container, just for the whole world at once. Including myself. Which has its uses, but not in the food delivery service."

"Do I look like an owl to you?" Thistles demanded.

"Small. Big eyes. Hoots a lot. The resemblance is uncanny." Harry raised a foot, placing it on the small of her back.

"Don't you dare," she began, only to be interrupted when Harry shoved her down the hole. She fell with a muffled thump, and then he cheerily dropped the bag on top of her. A groan rose out of the darkness, followed by some colourful swearing.

"I'd go myself, but I don't want to," said Harry. "Get that out to Remus and Sirius. You'll know them when you see them. Because they'll be in the Shrieking Shack at the end of that tunnel. Have fun!" He walked away, whistling merrily. Grumbling could be heard coming from underground, along with the muffled patter of footsteps slightly harder than they needed to be.

"Ah, she'll come around," said Harry to himself, wandering off towards the forest. "The problem with not carrying money is that you never have a coin to flip." He picked up a likely looking pebble from the ground, and tapped it against a tree. Most of it fell away in gravelly dust, leaving behind a flat disc with the approximate profile of Harry's face on one side and a stag on the other. He tossed it in the air.

"Heads says thestrals, tails says hippogriffs." He caught the coin on the back of his hand, and flipped it over onto the other palm. "And tails it is, so we're taking a hippogriff to Hogsmeade!" He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and strode off in search of magical beasts.

They weren't particularly hard to find, as it turned out. The trail of clawed tree trunks and oversized feathers was clear enough. Harry dithered to and fro in the forest, inspecting plants, and on one occasion stopping to say good morning to an unusually alert oak tree. Even so, it took him less than an hour to reach the clearing where the hippogriffs were gathered. As he walked out into the open, some of the larger males bristled their wings at him, and the few juveniles running about were shepherded into the heart of the flock.

"My feathery friends, I bid you good day," declared Harry, sweeping into a deep bow. The flock was distant enough that it wasn't directed at any one member - it was important not to slight any of the others by paying too much attention to one of the beasts. He waited for a minute, and then a second, hunched over there in the final pose of his bow. A third minute passed. A strain in Harry's neck begged him to unbend, to stretch the muscles out, or relax them, or anything, but he held resolute. Eventually he was rewarded by the sight of clawed feet approaching him. Just the one hippogriff. Perfect.

Harry held his breath for a moment as he counted, and then rose up to meet the attentions of the hippogriff which had come to inspect their visitor.

"Well aren't you magnificent?" he asked softly, knuckling the underside of the beast's head, where its beak ended. It leaned into his hand, and squawked in pleasure. "What's your name, then?" He chanced a glance out at the rest of the flock. They'd moved on to the other side of the clearing, and were milling around, hesitant in the presence of a human. Ah. If Hagrid was to be believed, there was one hippogriff more used to people than most in this flock. As prideful creatures, they were wont to react badly to being called by the wrong name, but Harry was confident in his guess.

"Would you be Buckbeak, then?" he asked. Buckbeak dipped his head in acquiescence. "Hah! I'm very glad to meet you, Buckbeak. Your plumage is every bit as glorious as Hagrid led me to believe when he told me about you." The hippogriff lowered its head, butting it against Harry gently.

"No time like the present, I suppose," he muttered. Steeling himself, he leapt onto the hippogriff's back in a smooth motion, taking care not to tug too hard at its feathers. "Whoa, there!" he cried as the beast reared up on its hind legs. Harry clenched his stomach, preparing to be flung to the ground and trampled by taloned feet, but instead Buckbeak slammed his wings against the sky like it owed him money, and sprinted forwards.

Wind rustled through Harry's hair, and washed his face with a fierce gale. The hippogriff rose rapidly, cutting through the treeline until they were high above it. Harry cried out in joy, holding on with his knees, and leaning forwards to stroke the beast, whispering compliments about the strength of its wings.

The first flight together was the most important one. It sealed the impression of Harry in the bird-beast's mind as a partner. He reached out, touching the mind of the hippogriff, questing for whatever hints of magic floated in the depths of its being.

Buckbeak's mind was strange, unlike that of humans, or mammals, or even the Whomping WIllow. It was folded inwards on itself over and over, refined into a tight point of energy. It was the mind of a rocket, all focused into propelling itself forwards through the sky, yet trailing thoughts like sparks behind it. As he flew, Buckbeak was noticing prey, predators, spots to land or nest or mate or fight. He was picking out all the choice details a hippogriff would need to know from the landscape, then discarding the unnecessary details as if shredding paper. The discarded thoughts streamed in the wake of his psyche, streamlining the beast's mind in their absence.

"I think you might have the most efficient brain of anything in this sky," Harry shouted to Buckbeak. "Including me. Definitely including me," he said, laughing. The hippogriff let out a peal of approval, and banked down through a cover of low-hanging clouds.

As the Shrieking Shack appeared in the distance, Harry attempted to nudge the image of where to land in Buckbeak's mind. It slid away like water off a duck's back, his thoughts gaining no purchase. He tried again, with a bit more force, but Buckbeak tossed him aside as if all his magical might was of no consequence. It wasn't even a matter of strength. The creature's brain just wasn't wired that way. Harry leaned forwards, patting his flank wonderingly, before shouting directions as best he could and hoping for the best.

The ground hit them hard. Harry tumbled from Buckbeak's back at the point of impact, whereas the hippogriff just took two prancing steps forwards and came to a stop.

"Well, we're here," he said. "Thanks for the ride. Mind hanging around for the return trip? I could be a couple of hours."

Buckbeak let out a noise which was somewhere between a roar and a caw, and hopped the fence into a neighbouring field. Fat white sheep, not yet fully mature, grazed in ignorance of the feathered menace that was about to fall on them.

"Don't get too fat to fly," Harry said under his breath.

The front door to the Shack was unlocked. Of course it was. Who'd think a haunted house had anything worth stealing, Harry asked himself. On consideration, he decided that a haunted house was more likely to contain treasure, if anything. This one not so much.

Harry could hear Remus and Sirius speaking inside, but ignored them for now. He went to where the ladder extended down to the tunnel, and squatted by it, waiting. Soon enough the little green head of Thistles poked up. She took one look at him and smashed the bag into his face with a heavy overarm throw.

"I was hoping to get a break from that stupid expression of yours," she told him, picking the bag up from where it had landed.

"You're a violent little gnome, aren't you?" asked Harry, more amused than anything. "I dread what I'm unleashing on the world. Perhaps we should try something to vent off some of that anger."

"I'm not angry today," she said. "I threw that at you for fun."

"Harry?" exclaimed Sirius, coming downstairs at the noise. "Not that we aren't thrilled to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"I brought lunch," he said, holding up the bag for Sirius to see. In the process, he lifted Thistles off the ground. She aimed a hard kick at his shins. "And an angry midget."

"You can just say midget, Harry," drawled Sirius. "It's redundant. They're all angry."

"Filius was always fairly genial," added Remus, lingering in the doorway to the living areas of the Shack. Sirius shook his head vehemently.

"Mate. No. Not this again. He's half-goblin. I'm not prejudiced, but there are hidden currents of rage built into his genes."

"Still waters run deep," cautioned Harry. "Although he did get a mite grumpy last night when Snape asked Thistles here if house elves should have rights."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Well that topic would bore anyone to death, after spending time around a teenage Hermione Granger," he said. "I can hardly blame Filius for growing short-tempered there."

"Or at Snape," added Sirius.

"He's really not so bad as you're determined to think, Sirius," said Remus wearily, as if revisiting an argument they'd retrod a thousand times. "He's not a people person, but even so he isn't the boy we went to school with, not anymore. We've all come a long way and done a lot of things since then."

"Except bathe," said Sirius. Remus pulled at his robes and balked.

"Which of us are you talking about there, exactly?" he asked. Sirius let out a deep belly laugh.

"It's not the same! We're out here hunting without access to plumbing. Snape lives in the biggest, fanciest house in the country and still can't find shampoo."

"I meant to ask about that, actually," said Harry. "What is it that you're doing out here? Hunting what? Or who?" Sirius stopped laughing instantly, a grave expression crossing his face. He glanced at Thistles worriedly.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you, Harry, but…"

"Thistles wouldn't tell anyone. My secrets are her secrets," he said. The elf sighed, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"I hate to admit it, but I'm on his team in whatever's going on," she said. Sirius gave her a startled look at the sound of her voice.

"What the hell kind of elf have you got there Harry?"

"She's a proprietary blend," he said. "Of self-actualisation, degenerate fae, and druidic magic. You know. The usual."

"Made me himself," Thistles added, sounding bored.

"Look," said Harry, "I'm bored. I've had to run around creating a future for my little mistake here and making sure she won't get deported to Narnia when folks pick up on how weird she is. I'm responsible for another life. I'm not ready to be a father. I am officially out of fucks to give. There was one fuck. It has been given. If there are shenanigans afoot, I want afeet."

"That cannot be a real word," said Remus. Harry shrugged.

"If it wasn't before, it is now. Consider it christened."

"Aren't you some kind of pagan?" he asked.

"Baptized, then," said Harry. "Whatever. Spill. I am willing to raise my bribe up to and including this lunch which I seem to have mistakenly already offered to share."

"We're hunting an agent of the Dark Lord Voldemort," said Sirius. Remus made a wordless shout of annoyance, and he held up his hands in surrender. "He should know! We talked about this! Harry, I don't know if anyone's told you already, but Voldemort - he's the one who killed your parents."

"Yes, I'm aware," said Harry. "My old teacher used to bang on about that from time to time. 'Let go of your vengeance lest it cloud your judgement,' and 'it is your sacred duty to slay the fell wizard,' and boy, stab him in the neck if you ever get the chance.' Well, which was it? Who knows."

Sirius scratched at his beard, which was beginning to go longer and stragglier in the front than when Harry had seen him last.

"Sounds like a stand-up kind of guy," he ventured at last.

"Sounds like a right pain in my arse and little else," Harry muttered, closing his eyes briefly. "Painful enough to make his point. If I value my arse, sooner or later I'm going to have to kill Voldemort."

"I don't know what the old man who kidnapped you was into" said Sirius mischievously, "but I don't think the Dark Lord's particular brand of depravity involves your arse."

"If he ever saw it, he might change that," suggested Harry. "It's the best arse I've got."

"Your face is a better arse," added Thistles.

"Thank you," said Harry, choosing to accept it as a compliment. The elf looked annoyed. But it always did, so her expression didn't change. "So. Who are we hunting?"

"Fenrir Greyback, of all people," said Remus, his scowl more haunted than usual. "So of course it must be us that go after him. He's a more savage monster than any other werewolf out there, but there's only one of him, and between us we have," he paused, weighing up Sirius. "One and a half wolves. It gives us a slight advantage."

"I'll admit," said Sirius, unusually sombre as well, "I'm not much good in a fight against something like the beast he turns into, but my shape isn't fixed. If need be, I can change back into a man and go for my wand."

"Or even turn a key in a lock," added Remus. "Or speak to anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby, and get them away before things turn sour. Having a human shape available on demand really alleviates most of the worst problems with lycanthropy."

"I might be able to do something for that, now that you mention it," said Harry. Remus' gaze snapped to him, all flint-sharp and hot.

"There's no cure for what ails me," he demanded, a note of anger or sadness or both in his voice, warning Harry to drop the subject. Harry ignored it, and shoved bullishly on with what he was going to say.

"I can't cure you of being a werewolf, no," he said. "But I can mould the curse. Change it. Put you in a better situation in some minor way."

"I'm not sure what that means, Harry, and at this stage I've given up hope that a miracle cure will come along. The sick, desperate part of me which won't learn will probably go along with whatever you're offering, but my rational mind knows it's not going to change a thing."

Harry was quiet for a time, and Sirius put a consoling arm around him. Harry patted the arm, but gave the man a sly smile to let him know the gesture was unnecessary, although appreciated.

"I've got something coming. Something big. It'll bind me to a well of natural power, something ancient and fathomless. Something out of myth. And it's from the elemental domain of water. I can leverage that influence over tides to reach out and work a lunar curse, I'm sure of it. Just hold on one more full moon for me to fulfil the pact, and I promise you, I'll fight this for you."

"Again, I have no idea what that means, but I'm glad to have your concern."

"Is this like what you did to me?" asked Thistles in a soulless voice. Remus began to look unnerved all of a sudden. "It was very successful." Harry squinted at the elf, wondering whether she was taking the piss or just being weird. She glared at Harry. "Oh, give over, I'm capricious, not depressed."

"In Harry's defence," said Sirius, "house elves are all creepy as shit. He just made a new flavour."


	10. Chapter 10

Harry stood halfway up a wall, parallel to the ground. Ten feet below him a staff meeting was taking place in the Great Hall without him. He was the topic of discussion. This was only partly because he didn't show up.

"So irresponsible!" tutted Professor Sprout, bustling about the table. "And on such an important meeting for him especially."

Professor McGonagall coughed, and knocked her mug against the table for everyone to stop talking. It took a moment, but they broke off their various conversations and returned their attention to her.

"As I was saying, Potter will harness the thestrals to their carriages. Albus had intended you to do it, Wilhelmina, but Potter has insisted for some unknowable reason, and Albus is choosing to indulge him. Instead you will take the first years across the lake in boats."

Up on the wall, Harry grinned. And there was the reason. When Dumbledore had approached him suggesting that he might enjoy seeing some new and very young faces, he'd scrabbled for an excuse to refuse. His life-long desire to meet a thestral it was. Harry was all about magical creatures these days.

Grubbly-Plank made some mutters of indignation, but didn't actually articulate a complaint in words. McGonagall raised an eyebrow at her until she was appropriately cowed into silence.

"Now," she continued, "there is the ongoing and ever troubling matter of Voldemort." Some of the other teachers flinched at the name, and she glared at them. "Perhaps first we should address the name, no? It is the official stance of the Ministry of Magic that anyone wishing to discuss the dark lord should not use evasive pseudonyms, the likes of You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Taboo Curse on the word Voldemort has been broken. This was a victory for the hard-working wizards or witches in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and should be respected. Really," she added, peering down her nose at Professor Sprout in particular, "it has been three years, so we really must be getting used to that."

"Secondly, following a number of altercations in the vicinity of Beauxbatons, a small but significant number of students from our sister school will be attending Hogwarts instead, at the wishes of their parents. Additional support has been provided already to assist them with their proficiency in English. This is an imprecise art, so be mindful of this when assessing the abilities of your charges."

"Third, the administration of both this school and the Ministry do not hold children responsible for the crimes of their parents, real or imagined. Do not attempt to do so.

And finally, following a sizable donation from a group of concerned parents to St Mungo's in the name of the DMLE, a consignment of aurors has been assigned to Hogwarts for the duration of the school year. Officially, there is no expectation that Hogwarts will ever face attack so long as Albus Dumbledore is headmaster, so this will be a team of two and two only, and their identities have not yet been released. Unofficially, it'll be Neville Longbottom and Mordecai Berrycloth."

McGonagall looked up from her roll of parchment, and dropped it on the desk. "That's it for the high level stuff. Now, who knows any of the new intake? We're all dying to know what we're in for," she said, her voice much warmer and informal now that she'd dropped the officious bearing.

Harry tuned out at this point. He wasn't much interested in gossiping about children he was going to do his utmost to avoid. He braced himself against the wall by squatting to his knees, and then pushed off, leaping out into mid-air. About a foot away from the stonework, gravity re-asserted itself. He twisted urgently to bring himself into the right position, grinned at the shocked exclamations from the teachers below, and landed on the Hufflepuff table. The wood groaned ominously at the impact, but didn't splinter.

He slid onto his feet, dusting himself off.

"Good meeting everyone! Keep it up. No hard feelings about all those comments you made about me Sprout; I know you were just concerned for me," He winked in the general direction of the fat old herbology professor, and sauntered away.

"Potter!" shouted Snape.

"Snape!" he shouted merrily back, not stopping or slowing. Snape cursed in the distance, and broke into an uncharacteristic jog to catch up.

"You'll make me run to speak to you, Potter?" he growled in a low tone. Harry gave him a sunny smile.

"It's good to know how much you're wanted, isn't it?" he said nonchalantly. "Did you enjoy the meeting? I was especially fond of the part where Voldemort Voldemorted all over everything."

"The Dark Lord's name is not a verb," Snape hissed.

"Yes, indeed," said Harry. "And were you not in that same meeting as me? No vague pseudonyms. His name is Voldemort."

"The Dark Lord," began Snape, lip curling as his voice slunk into a drawl, "is a title, not a name. Thus the rule does not apply."

"A grammatically correct way of weaselling out of following basic instruction. I commend your creativity, Snape, and yet wonder at the precise nature and origin of its motivations. And even at the same time, I wonder if that is precisely why you call him that. To make me wonder." Harry glanced over at Snape, matching Harry's fast walking pace, albeit with faster breaths as he gasped out words.

"Am I so concerned with your opinion of me to put on such a pantomime?" asked Snape scornfully.

"What are you concerned with? Spit it out, man, I may have all day, but this isn't how I wish to spend it."

"There is a girl," said Snape. Harry froze.

"Oh no. Please no. I'm not doing this."

"Potter, pay attention! There is a girl," Snape began, only to break off when Harry covered his ears with his hands and hummed loudly.

"Okay, fine!" Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands down. "Fine, Snape, fine. Damn it all, but okay. Only because you're my best friend. Where's the body? And do you have a shovel or should I go get Hagrid's?"

Snape bit back a curseword, and then a gleam came into his eyes.

"No, you know what? I'm actually going to curse you. Stay still if you wish. My aim is good enough that it needn't matter." Snape pulled his wand out from the voluminous folds of his cloak with a dramatic flourish. He pressed the tip to Harry's chest. "Brave or foolish?" he whispered in a voice like a dead crow.

Violet light flared from the tip of his wand. Harry locked eyes with Snape, not moving a muscle. A moment passed.

"Was that it?" he asked. He raised a hand slowly. Snape flinched, but Harry shook his head. "No, I'm not going to hit you. I'm just returning this to you He grabbed Snape's hand in his, turning it to face upwards, and placed something in his palm. He gently folded Snape's fingers back over it. The same violet light flared again, this time from Snape's hand.

He screamed in frustration and fury and pain.

"What does that curse do?" Harry asked. "Really, I want to know. I can't tell from your face, only that it tickles."

Snape, red-faced and panting, was moving his wand in a spiral over and over again on his chest, first on one side, and then the other.

"Iron filings in your lungs," he grunted out. Harry winced.

"Ouch. That's a bad way to go." Snape glared speechlessly. "Well, I have chores to avoid. Later Snape!" he called.

"Potter!" Snape shouted, wincing at the pain the effort caused. "There's a girl."

Harry stopped and groaned.

"Alright, if it means so much to you. What's her name and how much are you paying for her hair?"

"She's one of the students coming from Beauxbatons. Seventeen. Girl, obviously. Sister has been causing trouble for supporters of the Dark Lord in France. Threats have been made."

"Okay, I get the idea. Why are you coming to me about this?"

"The Dark Lord's supporters aren't just in France," said Snape. "And as you may have inferred from Minerva's warning, sons tend to inherit the sins of their father," he said in a particularly sour tone. "I will be watching certain individuals very closely. You will watch the girl."

"Do it yourself," said Harry dismissively. "I'm not a babysitter."

"I have enough demands on my time, you selfish prick. I had thought you were self-interested enough to give up some time to ogle a blonde French teenager for a moment here and there, but in even this, you let me down! Oh, I've tried to look past your appearance, but you are just the mirror of your father, strutting about with no care but his own vanity!"

"Come on, Snape, if you know anything about my father you know he preferred a redhead," said Harry. Snape stood stock upright, as if a rod had been rammed abruptly up his arse. Which, knowing Snape, may or may not have been part of the curse Harry had thrown back at him.

"If I see something happen I'll step in," Harry said at last. "That's all you're getting from me. Don't you dare try to pass responsibility for it off onto me if something happens."

"Her name is Gabrielle Delacour. You'll know her when you see her. Tell me at once if anything happens." Harry nodded, and finally made to walk away, but Snape caught his arm. Harry rolled his eyes, but didn't yank it away just yet.

"Wait, Potter. There are other threats that have been made against students. If you prove you're a man, that you can be trusted, I could tell them to you. You could watch them as well."

Harry pulled his arm away, laughing sardonically.

"What the fuck, Snape? You offer me up babysitting jobs as if they're some kind of reward? No. If I see something happen in front of me, to anyone, I'll step in if need be. But I'm not going snooping around for trouble. I know I said that you're my best friend a moment ago, but you know what, old pal?" Harry stepped forwards, putting his face right in front of Snape's, so their noses were almost touching. "I lied."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Lieutenant Teabag, pass the binoculars," instructed Harry. An exasperated elf glamoured to look as if she was wearing a dress with bits of twigs and leaves glued all over it thrust a pair of mail-ordered binoculars into his hands.

"The warning label said that this could have small parts which were a choking hazard," observed Thistle. "Perhaps you should put it in your mouth."

"Tally ho, Lieutenant, we have our target. Ready the sniper rifle." The elf sighed, and handed Harry a paintball gun. "On my mark, three, two, one, and…pause for drumroll, deep breath, fire!"

The paintball landed half a kilometre shy of the target, inconveniencing a deer which had been pissing against a tree.

"I gave it my best shot, and that's all Ol' Snapey asked," said Harry sadly. "The girl lives to reign in terror. Lieutenant Teabag, play a funeral march for the innocents we could not save this day."

"Mr Potter!" shrieked McGonagall. Harry winced, and pulled his army surplus hat down over his eyes. "What on earth are you doing on the roof with all that muggle rubbish? Where in Merlin's name did you get all of that?"

"The binoculars I ordered by post. Two day delivery to a ruined castle in Scotland, no big deal! Everything else was conjured by Dumbledore when I told him why I'd ordered the binoculars - to hunt down a terrible enemy to the peace of Hogwarts."

"Mr. Potter," she said firmly.

"Snape made me do it," Harry wailed forlornly.

"Mr. Potter, are you aware that the first spell I intend to teach my Seventh Year class this year will be the incarcerous spell?" she asked, casting as she spoke without a break in her lecturing tone or any signals before she moved.

Harry's eyes widened, impressed by her style, and caught off-guard. The charm conjured thick ropes which spun and knotted about him, knocking him off balance. He fell onto his face, sliding down the pitched slope of the roof to land on the floor. He missed the grass.

"Would you like me to take you to Madam Pomfrey, or will you be able to take yourself?

"No, I'm good," said Harry, voice slightly muffled from where he was pressed into the flagstones of the courtyard. "My face is pretty tough. Lots of scar tissue from smiling too much." He reached out to the earthseed buried in the Whomping Willow, and channelled the earth into the ropes. Renewed vitality shot through the ropes, hemp seedlings blossoming out from dead fibres, until the tight knots were a loose jumble of greenery. Shaking them off, he climbed to his feet, and thanked McGonagall profusely. "I'm actually glad. Getting down was going to happen facefirst one way or another, and you just helped me confront my fear of smashing my face into a stone."

"Immersion therapy is a success," called Thistles from where she perched, still up on the rooftop. "Next we will confront your fear of knives."

"Your elf appears to be doing better, I see," McGonagall forced out. Harry glanced at her appreciatively.

"Yeah, she is," he said.

"No I'm not," she grumbled. Harry laughed, but then looked at her closely.

"Wait, you look different," he said. "Pointier. In your face, anyway. Your ears look smaller. And your eyes." She frowned, and tugged at the hem of McGonagall's robes.

"You're a real witch, not like this fool. Would you conjure a mirror for me?" The deputy headmistress frowned in turn, but obliged with a flick of her wand and a quiet murmur.

Thistles pressed her face close to the glass, a smudge of condensation forming where her breath warmed the surface. She examined herself from head to toe, turning as much as she could to get a view of her back, as well.

"I think it's time," she said to Harry, after she was done inspecting herself.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely. I don't want to wait any longer."

"Then let's do it," said Harry. "Go find your favourite tree."

"A girl's first will always be special to her," she whispered, voice thick with sarcasm.

"The Whomping Willow it is," Harry agreed. "Professor," he said, nodding his head as he followed the elf out of the courtyard.

They stood a few minutes later at the top of the hill which overlooked the Willow. The earthseed hummed on the edge of Harry's awareness. Still just a seed. Still juvenile and not open to its full potential. But it was a start, and he was able to provide the rest.

"Sit," he instructed, pointing to the ground. Thistles obliged. "Okay. So. I'm not completely certain what's going to happen here, but I've got an approximate idea. When I went meddling around with your geas, I broke the part of you that makes you a house elf. And other bits have come forward to plug the gap. Bits from what house elves were before."

"I've accepted my fate. Whatever beast I'm turning into, it needs to be over. The part I can't stand is not fitting in my own skin." Harry worried at a speck on his robes, and then flopped down besides the elf.

"It's not so simple. House elves were made of a whole bunch of things, all blended together. Imps and sprites and erklings and some genuine ancestral fae. We may not just be rolling the dice for one of your predecessors. It could be some new cocktail of the bits left over from them. In fact, I think that's what's likely. And unless you object, it's what I'm going to aim for."

"What makes this any different from the first time around?"

"Back then, I was just poking a ball of magic to see what would happen. This time I'll be casting the magic. Rebuilding you from the constituent parts lying dormant in your soul."

"Playing God with me as the canvas," Thistles said bluntly. Harry winced.

"That's one way to put it."

"I already said I'm in. You can't imagine what it's like," she said, her voice picking up pace as she spoke until she was chattering out words breathlessly. "One moment I need to hide in a pile of leaves and cower at the sound of footsteps, and the next I want to run laughing through the trees, cackling to lure children close enough to strike with darts, then claws, then my teeth with burning red blood running down my chin, so fresh and so bright that the sun of their life has barely begun to rise and it's mine, all mine, condensed into liquid and dripping from my lips. You broke me, Harry. Make me into something new."

Enough stalling, Harry decided. He placed his palm on the elf's head, and she immediately stiled, save for an involuntary trembling. He drew together the far corners of his mind where he was always aware of her, and where he was always aware of the vast weight of the earth, and held them. The remains of the elf's bonds to Hogwarts had begun to stagnate and decay, resembling draped curtains made from promises and potential, ready to be torn apart.

Harry whistled, just one, high note, and the bond shattered. Motes of filmy grey hung in the air before his eyes, growing and falling to the ground. Some landed on his hands, and he noted that they were the severed wings of moths.

The Whomping Willow slammed its branches against the ground in a eerie tempo, matching Harry's heartbeat, and the heartbeat of the elf.

He knelt, palm still on the elf's head, and the other pressed firmly into the ground. Harry focused his will, and with a twist of intent and pleading and hope, buried the spirit of the elf deep inside the overwhelming density of the earth's raw mana.

Stillness. He had no eyes to see with, no hands to touch with. No body at all, only a sense of smallness against the incomparable bulk of the planet he stood on itself. All he knew for an eternity was stone, stone under pressure, and stone crushed into fire. And then a stone broke open, and lifted upwards, and was a seed reaching for the sun. Twin green leaves on the tip of a slender seedling, pushing upwards, breaking through the crust of soil, and then - and then -

Song drifted through the air, a soothing melody which held at once the warmth of the sun and the life from the earth.

Harry opened his eyes, and a phoenix was before them. It tilted its head, letting a single tear fall down onto the earth which was a seed which was an elf which was a - was Thistles.

No longer a tiny elf, a girl only a few inches shorter than Harry sat cross-legged on the ground. Her features were finer than most humans would be, more pointed, and her ears flared upwards like leaves. Her skin was the rich green of holly leaves, and her lips the colour of holly berries.

She shifted, slowly, softly, and Harry took his hand away fearfully. She blinked, and raised her head. Her eyes were the exact same colour as her skin, only with a pearlescent hue to them. It was unsettling to see them move against the same-coloured skin. At the centre, white clouds like thistledown formed her irises. She was lit by an inner fire which illuminated her skin, making Harry feel as if he was staring directly into the sun. His eyes watered, but he wouldn't look away.

"This is…" she whispered, and looked down at herself. Her hands were longer and finer than they had been, slender fingers with a joint more than a human girl would have. "This is me." Her voice grew stronger, and she said it again. "This is me."

She placed a finger on Harry's lips, and tilted her head.

"Are you weeping for me, Harry?" she asked. Her voice rang like bells in the wind.

"If my eyes weren't already watering, I might have been," he answered honestly. She laughed, and the bells chimed.

And then, as if somebody had clapped a muffler to the bells, her laugh became muted, and her glow subsided, and her skin faded to a pale white like any other young woman in Scotland, save for an exotic twist to her features.

"Glamour," she said. "As good now as it was then."

Thistles stood, and stretched, every inch of her naked and perfect, even when human. She caught Harry looking, and gave him a wicked smile with teeth that were slightly too sharp, and then a loose white and green summer dress hung from her shoulders.

For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Harry breathed.

Thistles stepped closer to Harry, placing one long-fingered hand over his heart.

"Oh look what a mess you've made of your elf," she said merrily, leaning forwards to speak in his ear. Suddenly she nipped sharply at his ear. Harry winced, clapping a hand to the side of his head. Thistles had already skipped back, licking scarlet drops of Harry's blood from her lips with a tongue which seemed every so slightly too long and thin for a human mouth. "Like a horse," she said, voice rich with satisfaction. "Docked so that everyone who sees will know that you're mine."


	11. Chapter 11

Thistles looped her arm through Harry's, and leaned on him as they walked over the grounds as if they were a couple. They approached the main doors into the castle where Professor Dumbledore stood. Fawkes flew overhead, plumage resplendent in red and gold. As he sang his phoenix-song, Thistles joined in, singing a wordless melody which brought to mind the prickles of a blackberry bush, sweet tart juice in the mouth and stinging welts on the skin.

As if in harmony with her song, Harry's ear throbbed.

Dumbledore looked them up and down, examining the newcomer with an intense scrutiny. Fawkes descended, beating his wings slower and slower until he sat perched on Dumbledore's shoulder. He chirped happily, and Harry felt something in his chest rise to greet him in response.

"It can be difficult for someone so young as you to understand how old I am," he said to the air as they approached. "But as old as I am, this world keeps finding ways to surprise me. As do you, Harry."

From close up, Harry could see the hint of moisture clinging to the headmaster's eyes. Unabashed, he lifted the sleeve of his robe and dabbed at them, lifting his half-moon spectacles away so that he could better wipe away the beginnings of tears.

"I imagine you saw, then," said Harry, feeling tongue-tied. There were no words big enough for what he felt, but the sun reflected off Fawkes' feathers in burnished gold, and the grass was cool beneath his feet, and the throbbing in his bitten ear felt like the heartbeat of a world, newborn.

"What did it look like?" Thistles asked eagerly, stepping forward towards Dumbledore with a willingness she would never have had, as her former self. "From the outside?"

"It was like seeing magic wake up," said Dumbledore. "And then you did. If I may say so, you look considerably better than you did before, my dear. Not just more beautiful, although certainly that, but hale and hearty and happy, oh, certainly, above all else you look happy, and that's the part which warms me to see." The old man looked happy as well, and something more - he looked carefree. "You as well, dear boy. I'm glad to see that you're feeling like yourself again."

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of what to say. He shrugged, eventually, and agreed.

"I was worried I might have hurt her. Careless magic on an innocent and defenceless creature - that's exactly the opposite of what I should be doing. I should have known to be more prudent when trying to create a new working of magic, which nobody had ever done before, and yet it all seemed so simple, so natural, like it…" he trailed off, hesitant for fear of sounding like a braggart.

"Like it always is," finished Dumbledore. Harry gave him a rueful grin.

"Yeah. I suppose that's it."

"My Harry is far too powerful with his magic for his own good," said Thistles to the headmaster. "He suspects it, but he doesn't really understand. And he's even stronger, now that he has me." She rested her head on his shoulder, and fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly at Dumbledore, making the old man laugh, and beam in response at her.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, trying to twist his head to look at her without shoving him off his shoulder.

"Haven't you noticed?" she asked. She pouted, and removed her arm from his. "Let me show you," she said, moving around to face him. Their gazes crossed, and then locked together in more than just a figurative sense. Harry found his face pulled of its own accord to position itself exactly across from Thistles'. Their eyes met, and Harry felt the slow sprawl of plants all across the surface of the earth, leaves turning to meet the sun, and roots burrowing down deep for moisture. He felt the hope and wonder of dandelion blowing on the breeze, and the aching pleasure of an ancient oak tree as an acorn burst through the soil as a nascent sapling.

Harry gasped, and pulled away, ice-cold sweat sliding across his skin. His heart thudded in his chest, and he panted, desperate for oxygen all of a sudden.

"There's so much," he choked out. "I couldn't hold it. I would burst from the entropy alone." Even as he spoke, he felt a bumblebee hum lazily around petals he did not have, and snow drop in clumps from his needles to open sharp green blade of chlorophyll which drank greedily from the mountain sun.

Thistles stroked his arm soothing, murmuring sweet shapeless words until Harry no longer felt dizzy in the endless expanse of all the plants which grew.

"Don't fret, Harry. I'll hold the world until you're ready to bear it," she said. Somehow, he managed to believe her.

"What are you?" he asked. Dumbledore stiffened at the question, and if the curiosity on his face was born more from wonder than Harry's, he couldn't tell.

"Don't you know, Harry?" she asked, laughing that laugh like bells chiming, and the bells reverberated with sounds a human ear cannot usually hear, and her skin pooled rich with green as her glamour faded away to show just a glimpse of her true form. "Why, I'm exactly as you made me. A little human, a little animal, the sun and stone and a surprising amount of mineral with just the tiniest dash of fae as a catalyst to bind it all together with your magic, and here I am! Goddess would not be incorrect, but you aren't ready for that, not yet, so you may simply call me Thistles and that is who I shall be." She smiled, after she had finished speaking, and Harry noted how when the sunlight struck her just so, he could almost believe he could see holly-leaf green through her glamour.

Harry coughed, and blinked, and shook himself out of his daze as if he was lifting his head out of the ocean. His vision swam, and his mind felt foggy, but the overwhelming sensation of power within his grasp slowly muted until it was just another note in the background hum of arcane potential.

"I believe I owe you some money," he offered. Dumbledore shrugged, giving Harry a beatific smile.

"Oh, let's not worry too much about little details like that," he said. "I'm much too old to begin exchanging young women for gold."

Harry gave Thistles a sideways glance. A gleam in her eyes lit the air between them with conspiracy, and she leaned forwards.

"I wouldn't think that completely accurate," she said. "I'm not just young, I'm newborn."

"And you do seem to be in the habit of giving babies away," finished Harry.

Harry stood in a corner of the Entrance Hall, sweeping dust into a corner. It had taken him quite some time to find any dust, given the diligence of the house elves. Eventually he'd found piles of it in the trophy room, which apparently was left uncleaned by the elves so that it could be assigned as a chore to unruly students. Harry had gathered up a great sack of it and dumped it right inside the main doors to the castle so that he had an excuse to hover around sweeping when the students arrived and catch a glimpse of them. Perhaps he could have accomplished as much by agreeing to escort the younger children across the lake, but he hadn't wanted to risk finding himself responsible for the screaming little ratbags.

He'd even managed to get out of another job. After admitting to Dumbledore that he'd made up his story about desperately wanting to have the task of harnessing the thestrals, the headmaster had agreed to assign that job back to the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Professor Grubbly-Plank. She hadn't been pleased, but didn't voice her objections except in mumbled complaints as she stomped away. The rest of Harry's day was free for him to spend as he chose, and he felt that was well-deserved after all he'd accomplished that morning.

The doors swung open with a boom. Harry looked up from the crude face he was drawing in the dust in confusion. It was far too early for the students to be here, surely?

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, man?" shouted the newcomer in the precise, clipped tones of someone who'd gone through a hundred hours of elocution lessons at a young age. Around Harry's age, he had long blonde hair slicked back, almost to his shoulders, and wore expensive-looking robes.

"Sweepin', guv," Harry grunted in his best imagining of a cockney Hagrid.

"With a broom?" exclaimed the new man incredulously. "Are you insane?"

"Broom's fer sweepin' with, guv," said Harry, topping his drawing with a pointy wizard's hat with a few strokes of the broom. "Innit," he added for good measure.

"That's a Nimbus 2001, you - you - you soft cheese! It's a racing broom, not a rag on a stick for you to prod muck with. Merlin knows how much damage you may have caused by slapping it around on the floor like that. Where did you even get that from?"

"Ah," said Harry, dropping the accent and falling back into his normal drawl. "I suppose that's the peril of never having done a day's manual labour in your life, isn't it? You don't even know enough about being a servant to pretend to be one." He stepped forwards, offering his hand to the other man. "Harry Potter, the new castellan. You could say that makes me in charge around here."

The blonde man stared for a long moment, his face still. He looked Harry up and down, the barest edge of a sneer appearing on his face, only to disappear a moment later as he snorted in laughter and grasped Harry's hand in a firm shake.

"Draco Malfoy, governor. You could say that makes me in charge around here." He paused, still holding Harry's hand in a tight grip. "Say, where did you get that broom from - your own, I presume? Do you fly much?"

"What does a broom have to do with flying?" asked Harry. Malfoy gave him an odd look. "I found this in a storeroom with a bunch of angry balls. But yes, I love to fly, though I don't get the opportunity as often as I'd like these days."

"Good man," said Malfoy imperiously. "Although I do feel obliged to ask…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"Oh, this?" asked Harry. "I'm just skulking in the background to check out the new students. Keep an eye out for excessive evil or Frenchness, you know."

"Yes, I do know," said Malfoy gravely. "I'll be meeting the Beauxbatons delegation momentarily myself. I had expected Dumbledore to meet me at the gates but he's nowhere to be seen. Unusual for him. I don't suppose you have any notion of where he might be?"

"He's off poking and prodding at a little magical experiment of mine trying to figure out how it works. Not a chance he'll be able to work it out on his own, but he wouldn't take my word for it."

Malfoy laughed, and ran a hand over his hair in a motion which could have been patting it down in any other man, but was utterly redundant for someone who had cemented every strand into place.

"I'm glad to meet someone else who'll agree the old codger doesn't know everything," he said. "Board meetings are a nightmare when half the governors will leap at any idea just because Dumbledore's the one who suggested it." Harry nodded along, and then Malfoy's face suddenly fell and he swore. "Do you think he'll be much longer? I need him to greet the French with me. They'll be arriving any moment."

The headmaster had been enamoured with Thistles and whirled her away to his study. Not in the way a man is enamoured with a woman, of course, but with the professional fascination of a wizard discovering unknown magic. Harry mulled it over. Dumbledore was the most capable wizard he'd ever met, that was for certain, but even so he didn't stand a chance of picking apart even the tiniest hint of what had happened to the elf. It wasn't that the man lacked ability or magic, only the tools to understand what he was looking at or interact with it.

"He'll probably be a while," ventured Harry. Malfoy cursed again. An idea took root in Harry's mind, and he grimaced, but couldn't deny it had a certain appeal. "I'll tell you what," he said reluctantly, but his voice brightened with every word as he warmed p to the idea. "I'll come with you in his stead."

"You will?" asked Malfoy doubtfully.

"Who needs Dumbledore? After all, didn't we just agree that we're in charge around here?"

Malfoy laughed and acquiesced, turning to place a hand on the great door into the Entrance Hall.

"Headmaster or castellan, it's all the same, I suppose," he said.

They stood on the other side of the doors, in more or less the exact same position Harry had been conversing with Thistles and Dumbledore that morning. Harry glanced up at the sky, which hardly seemed to have dimmed, for all that the evening was rapidly approaching.

Thestral-pulled carriages were just beginning to appear at the other end of the winding trail which led up from the gates.

"I saw them get off the train hours ago," said Harry. "Why are they taking so long to get up to the castle?"

"Madame Maxime insisted that the students be allowed some time to explore Hogsmeade. Stretch their legs, pick up any supplies for the year they'd forgotten to pack, that sort of thing," said Malfoy.

Harry hummed in agreement. It made sense to him, he supposed. And it would prevent the foreign students from needing supervision and entertainment for the whole day while the teachers prepared for the bulk of Hogwarts to show up later in the evening.

At last the French delegation began to arrive. From the first carriage disembarked one of the largest women Harry had ever seen, wearing a heavy fur coat in spite of the sun over their heads. Sitting beside her, clad in a silky blue uniform, was the girl he'd been watching through the binoculars.

"Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts," greeted Malfoy pompously. Harry noticed that he did not offer his hand to the larger woman, but rather gave a sharp nod of his head, too perfunctory to be a bow.

By now the second carriage had almost approached, so Harry began unharnessing the thestrals which drew them, patting down the beasts and murmuring soothing words to them. One the flank of the first thestral there was a rough-red sore, skin scraped to the texture of sandpaper where the harness had been carelessly shoved on. Harry grimaced, cursing Grubbly-Plank for her laziness. Sure, he'd dodged out of doing the job, but he hadn't injured an innocent creature out of that laziness.

He tapped a whorl in the wood beneath the unused driver's seat of the carriage, activating an enchantment which shrank it down to the size of a brick.

"Where is Dumbledore?" asked Madame Maxime, her accent as thick as Hagrid's. She looked around, over their heads, as if searching for a hidden headmaster waiting to pop out at them.

The girl in the carriage beside her slowly made her way down to join her fellow students, who were beginning to congregate in small clusters a small distance away. The thestrals were doing the same, Harry saw in amusement, milling around in small groups, nipping at each other and butting heads gently in parody of the Beauxbatons students chattering nearby.

Gabrielle's descent was hindered by the train of Maxime's fur coat which lay on the step. She attempted to place her foot in the small patch of step not covered by fabric, but it was far too small even for that. Harry saw her wince as she stood on the trim of Maxime's coat. The headmistresses of Beauxbatons must have felt it, for without turning her head, she yanked the coat forwards to free it from whatever it had snagged on.

This pulled Gabrielle's footing out from under her and she stumbled, almost falling. There was a flash of magic in the air, a smell of burning feathers, and then Gabrielle righted herself with inhuman grace, turning the fall into a delicate leap onto the ground.

Harry glanced at Malfoy. He was frowning at Maxime, but Harry couldn't say whether he'd just seen the girl nearly fall, or had noticed the way she'd prevented it from happening. He looked at the girl through narrowed eyes. This was no ordinary witch.

More carriages were arriving, and Harry moved to let the thestrals loose as quickly as he could.

"My name is Draco Malfoy," he said. "I represent the Hogwarts Board of Governors in the headmaster's absence."

"Faugh," scoffed Maxime. "I know your father. Am I to understand there are now two Malfoys sitting on the school board?" She wore a look of disgust, despite continuing to stare out over their heads rudely, refusing to lower her gaze to look Malfoy in the eyes.

Malfoy looked as though he was about to choke, but schooled himself back into a polite expression, and gestured to Harry. "My colleague here is Harry Potter, castellan for our illustrious school. A new position, but one which we feel will be of great value in the coming months and help us to keep your students safe and comfortable during their stay here."

"Hogwarts is tame. She hasn't needed a castellan in centuries. I insist that you fetch Dumbledore at once, young man. I did not come all this way to meet with the custodial staff."

For all that Harry had been shoved into this role almost against his will, he felt a prickle of territorial objection at the woman's abrupt dismissal. The same emotion was plastered over Malfoy's was as well, showing itself as an ugly sneer. Beside Maxime, Gabrielle was beginning to look embarrassed, her cheeks shaded slightly pinker, and her posture stiffer than it had been a moment ago.

"Times are changing, and we change to meet the challenges ahead," said Harry softly. "Is that not why you are here, dropping off students because your protection is deemed inadequate? Because you are weak."

"Monsieur Potter!" Maxime threw her arms wide in an angry gesture, accidentally striking one of the thestrals. For all the poor luck in the world, it was one of the beasts chafed by its harness, and already in a foul mood. It bellowed in shock, rearing onto its hind legs and fanning its wings wide in defence against the perceived threat.

Gabrielle screamed, and ducked down, avoiding the sweep of a gigantic bat-wing as it crashed through the air over her head, and the other thestrals drove forwards, the emotions of the beasts building off one another until they were all shrieking and stomping amidst terrified French students who stared wildly around in search of the source of the noise.

Malfoy drew his wand, looking around blankly. By the way his gaze was directed at the clods of earth being flung up by the thestral's hooves and not at the panicking creatures themselves, Harry guessed that he was unable to see them.

Even in the midst of the chaos, Harry could tell that Gabrielle was the only other one who seemed able to see the thestrals. She cowered against Maxime's bulk, trying to make her body small, while the others just looked around in confusion and panic. The thestral Maxime had struck lashed out over and over with its hooves, blows raining down on the air dangerously close to Gabrielle. It wasn't trying to hurt her, or even Maxime, but in its sudden panic it couldn't help but obey the instinct to flail out, a display of violence to warn a predator to back away more than to actually fight it.

A meteor fell from the heavens, all feathers and fury and the sudden thunder of flesh against flesh and talons against hooves as Buckbeak struck down the thestral terrorising Gabrielle. He screamed and beat his wings against the air as the thestrals did, forming a sharp profile against the black-bone shapes of deathly horses.

With a target for their sudden rush of adrenaline, the worst of fight or flight tangled up in the feedback loop of herd emotions, the thestrals all stampeded forward to defend their fallen brother against Buckbeak's assault.

"Be still!" shouted Harry, his voice louder than could be made with his mouth alone, reverberating with itself in a heavy echo as if more than one person had spoken. The air was lead over and under their wings. The beasts crumpled, their momentum carrying them forwards even as they fell until almost a dozen thestrals lay twitching on the hillside.

Buckbeak gave a final slash at the fallen beast with his talons, but Harry caught him by the pinions before the blow connected and yanked him backwards. The avian terror snapped his beak at Harry, who retaliated by headbutting the hippogriff between the eyes hard enough to stun it. He took a step back, dazed, and then tucked his wings in bashfully. Beneath his legs Gabrielle sobbed, curled in a foetal position with her arms over her head. Buckbeak made a gentle chirping noise, stepping back to reveal her, and she flinched from his look. He pressed the side of his head to her body, and nudged her until she lifted her head, eyes wet and red as the long gashes torn in the thestral which had nearly kicked her.

Harry hushed the hippogriff, bending down to push his head away, as gently as Buckbeak had been nudging Gabrielle. He examined the girl quickly for injuries, and she stared back helplessly. Once he was certain she was unharmed, he pulled her to her feet, keeping his body between her and the sight of the wounded thestral.

Maxime stood uselessly in the middle of the carnage, hair slightly ruffled but otherwise unharmed. Even had a creature struck her, she was sturdier by far than her charges, but she'd escaped without being so much as shoved.

"Be as rude as you wish to my colleague and I," began Harry in a tight voice, anger held back to coldness, "but kindly refrain from assaulting the creatures in my care."


	12. Chapter 12

"I wish to complain," declared Maxime haughtily. "The conduct of your staff is deplorable. Disgusting. I was nearly killed, as were my students. I have brought them here only because you have promised their parents that they would be safe, and this happens before we even entered the castle!"

Dumbledore sat opposite Maxime, fixing her with a serious look. McGonagall was equally severe on his right and side, and on his left, Snape just looked pissed off.

"Your clumsiness is what almost cost your student her life," said Malfoy, his lips pressed thinly together and eyebrows narrowed. "You are a guest here, yet you greeted us rudely and assaulted the very animal which brought you to our door!"

"An invisible monster!" Maxime snorted, exhaling a hot angry breath. Even seated at the table, she towered over everyone, and McGonagall hid a movement which could have been the beginning of a flinch.

"Madame, Mister Malfoy, please!" cried Dumbledore, holding his hands out in entreaty. "We're meeting here in friendship, so please, let us act accordingly. Maxime harrumphed and folded her arms, elbowing Gabrielle in the head. Alone amongst the students, Gabrielle had joined the hastily formed conference. Harry wondered why she had been brought along - because she was the one most affected by the attack, perhaps, or some other reason he didn't know.

Harry leaned against the doorjamb, lingering in the entranceway. When the awkward silence and angry glares continued, he strode forwards to break the lull in the argument.

"The thestrals are settled back in the forest, Professor," he said to the headmaster. "Only Sebastian suffered any serious injury, and I've stopped the bleeding for now. By your leave, I'll tend to him."

Dumbledore looked up at Harry, eyes flashing with an intense but unknowable emotion.

"No, Harry, I think it best you join us. Wilhelmina will take care of the poor beast." Dumbledore flicked his wand, and one of his characteristic overstuffed armchairs popped into existence at the end of the table. Comfortable, fat, and lower to the ground than the formal hardbacked wooden chairs everyone else was sitting in, Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the contrast.

"Her negligence is part of what caused this," he argued. "I'm not inclined to trust her to look after him properly."

"This attitude again!" exclaimed Madame Maxime. "This is exactly what I was referring to, Dumbledore. Are you really going to let this boy run around Hogwarts criticising your teachers? If all of your staff are so uncouth, I have a mind to return to Beauxbatons with every last one of my students. We can be there by midnight."

"Harry, please," said Dumbledore. "You have my permission to follow up on Wilhelmina's work after this meeting, but surely you can trust she'll keep Sebastian's condition from deteriorating for a few minutes." He gestured at the chair, meeting Harry's gaze expectantly.

Harry sighed, and moved over to the table. Unwilling to squat six inches below everyone else's level, he grabbed hold of the chair and shoved it away. The chair slid away as if the flagstones were greased, only coming to a stop after it bounced off the wall with a muffled thump. He made to sit down in the spot where the chair had been, and the stone floor beneath him moved like molten wax, deforming and rising into the stone facsimile of a hand, palm upraised and fingers pointed to the ceiling. By the time he'd sat, everyone at the table was staring.

"Showboating, Potter?" whispered Snape, leaning across Malfoy to speak in tones only audible to the governor and Harry. Harry winked at him. Malfoy mouthed something silently in amazement, and Snape muttered for him to ignore Harry's antics, which only made Harry grin.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Now that we are all gathered, if you do not mind, Madame, I shall sum up your grievance for Minerva, Severus, and Harry, who were not present for the start of this conversation: you arrived at Hogwarts greeted not by myself but by Mister Malfoy and Mister Potter. Upon expressing your dissatisfaction with this, you found Misters Malfoy and Potter rude and unsympathetic, but before you could respond there was a great clamour from the thestrals which put your students, notably Miss Delacour here, in harm's way. Does that about sum it up?"

Maxime nodded, the anger on her face becoming more and more smug, at least to Harry's eyes.

"Well, then there is no doubt about it. This is completely my fault for being tardy," said Dumbledore. "I must apologise. I should not have allowed myself to become so distracted before such an important appointment." Maxime's smugness dropped, and she banged a fist on the table. The wood shook hard enough to knock over an inkwell, spreading a pool of black over the notes McGonagall had been taking. She tapped the parchment with her wand, vanishing the spill, and shook her head at Maxime in mute reproach.

"No, that will not do," said Maxime. "This boy of yours insulted me!"

"Why, whatever did he say?" asked Dumbledore.

"He told me that I was too weak to protect my own students!" she shouted, causing Gabrielle to flinch and lean away from the giant woman's arms as she gestured wildly and without consideration for the girl she was almost slapping with the back of her hand.

"Are you not?" hissed Snape. Maxime froze, and stared daggers at him.

"The safety of all students here at Hogwarts is paramount," said Dumbledore hurriedly. "I'm sure that Harry only meant to reassure you that he will do everything he can to look after them. This is all a misunderstanding."

Harry was tempted to speak up and say that he'd only spoken the truth, but Maxime huffed and bellowed and eventually cooled as Dumbledore continued to offer assurances for the well-being of the Beauxbatons students.

"If you would humour me, Madame, consider perhaps that had Harry not been there, the incident could have been much more serious. But you are here, and you are well, with only a little bruising to your pride. I must apologise for any offence taken, of course, but surely you do not intend to withdraw on our agreement for the rudeness of one staff member. I cannot imagine the parents of your young charges would be pleased with such a decision."

Maxime gave Dumbledore an icy stare, affronted by the insinuation that she valued her pride over her students' lives, yet unable to completely refute it without backing down on her argument.

"Your Ministry will be hearing from me," she said eventually. "But the decision is not mine. The students must remain here for now."

"Good," said Malfoy, rising suddenly. "Now that has been agreed upon, I must be going. This meeting has already run far past the time I had allocated for it, and there are other matters I must attend to with this visit. Severus?"

Snape sighed, and stood as well, rolling his shoulders back to alleviate the discomfort of hunching over a table and staring at a wall while ignoring the meeting going on around him.

"Quite," he said. "The Hogwarts Express cannot be more than an hour away now. This foolish distraction has interrupted our schedule long enough."

"Will you be joining us for dinner, Mister Malfoy?" asked Dumbledore. He shook his head dismissively, and walked away from the table with Snape. As he passed Harry, his eyes flickered over the odd hand-shaped stone chair which had been moulded from the fabric of the castle, and he hesitated.

"Do you know, I think I shall," he said. Snape frowned at him in surprise. "I did promise my father that I'd take a hands-on approach to being a governor."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, rubbing his hands together. "I'll have an extra place set at the staff table for you. Harry, I do expect that you'll attend the feast as well."

Harry swore under his breath. Snape smirked.

"Oh, good," said Malfoy. "I'd be glad for the opportunity to speak with you in a more congenial setting. You can sit by me and Severus." Snape's face twisted up as if he'd swallowed a lemon.

Harry let out a long breath between clenched teeth. The air whistled as it left his body, and he felt the tension of the room fade away. He groaned in relief as soon as the door shut behind him, sealing away McGonagall and Maxime who were bickering away over petty matters of the school curriculum.

Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder.

"Be a good lad and show Miss Delacour to the Beauxbatons dormitory for me, would you?" Without waiting for a response, the headmaster walked away humming merrily.

The girl followed meekly behind Harry as he moved through the corridors.

"This way then," he said, belatedly realising that he'd just walked off without acknowledging her. "That was some meeting, right?" She murmured agreement quietly, but didn't say a word. Harry frowned, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He wondered if it was a language issue, if she wasn't confident in her English, but could also see she was holding herself stiffly, hugging her arms to her stomach.

Making a decision on the spur of the moment, Harry went left instead of right at the next junction. There were a few more turns, a few more minutes of silently traipsing through the corridors, and then they were in the infirmary.

It was a mid-sized, airy chamber, subdivided by curtains hung from rails. Large windows let in the sun, and it was almost as bright as standing outside. Racks of bottled potions and salves took up a corner of the room next to a door through which a great many more could be seen in an adjacent storeroom. The storeroom was dark and windowless with a solid looking lock although the door stood open at the moment.

"Here we are!" he said brightly. Gabrielle frowned, looking around at the rows of starched white beds.

"This is where we're going to sleep?" asked Gabrielle, speaking at last. There was a hint of an accent in her voice, but only a hint. Harry filed that away.

"No, this is the infirmary," he said. "Sit down." He gestured to the nearest bed, and walked over to close the heavy wooden door into the corridor. The windows had been open when they entered, but wooden shutters swung closed in synch with the door. In moments the room was lit only by the warm amber from candelabras fixed to the wall at regular intervals.

"I told Madame Maxime that I wasn't injured," she said carefully, frozen to the spot with her eyes darting around the room. She looked at the door longingly, but Harry stood between her and it. He stepped closer to her, and she flinched backwards, stumbling and catching herself to sit on the edge of the bed.

"And I didn't see any obvious injuries when I looked you over earlier, either," said Harry, walking towards her. She leaned away, looking as if she wanted to flee.

Harry placed his palm on her forehead, and she attempted to pull away from him. He held her still, and she grabbed his wrist, driving nails which grew thick and long into his skin. Harry observed her fingers swelling into talons in amazement, even as they drove through his skin. He didn't let go, and sent a rush of magic through her.

Gabrielle gasped, and her grip loosened. Harry was surprised to see her notice what he was doing, but didn't falter in his task. He let his senses suffuse her body, hunting the compelling tug of wrongness from within her like a dog chasing a scent. A heartbeat passed, and he found it. With his other hand, he reached down and touched her, just under her ribs, and on the outside of her thigh, and the joint of her elbow.

"So that's how it is," he murmured. "Well, you were telling the truth, or part of it. You weren't injured today, but you were injured. Three times."

"That's why I'm here, is it not?" she asked haughtily. "France isn't safe anymore.

"That may be so, but I'd wager your classmates aren't wearing curses like jewellery," said Harry. "What happened to you?" Gabrielle raised her chin defiantly.

"A dark wizard tried to kill my sister. I stopped him. I didn't stop all of his curse." She glared at Harry as if challenging him to question her story. The slender blonde girl had a fierceness about her that made him easily able to believe she could fight a dark wizard. Those talons came from a bird of prey, not a dove. Her petite figure didn't make her small, it made her sharp.

But Harry wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

"Yeah, but these curses all happened on different occasions," he said easily. "I can see that without even looking at the scars. So what about the others?"

Something in her shoulders shifted, and Gabrielle's eyes flashed angrily. And then she slumped, exhaling and twisting her arms back around her stomach. Harry wondered if it was just her hunching over or if the wound was paining her.

"The stories behind those are less valorous," she admitted. "What concern is it of yours? You can't be the healer."

"Can't I?

"Non," snapped Gabrielle, raising her voice for the first time. "I have been in correspondence with Madame Pomfrey through the healer who treated me at home. I know who she is and you are not her!"

"Then why are you healed?" asked Harry, flopping down on the next bed over from Gabrielle to sprawl out. He touched that corner of his mind which belonged to Thistles and wove a thread of vitality out of the light at the heart of all living things. He felt it under his fingers as heat and texture, and tasted it in his mouth as salt.

"Curses do not heal quickly, if ever. I am not healed!" she shouted, a rawness in her voice suggesting tears beneath the surface of her anger.

Harry just smiled, the working changing as he bound it together with intent and direction, magic building in pressure more and more until at last he released it and a rejuvenating force washed out from his navel, flooding the room with a brightness that came without light.

"Are too," he said, and lay back on the pillow.

Gabrielle let out a sob, and Harry turned quickly to look at her in alarm. His magic had been unpredictable of late, but healing was the most benign working there could be. Even accelerated by his fae connection to the flora of the world, he couldn't imagine any way it could cause harm. And yet recent events had led him to doubt his surety in how his magic worked.

The girl wasn't crying, and didn't seem to be in pain, that much he could tell for certain. He let his senses quest outwards, honed by the ebb and flow of his magic still at work within her. Two of the curses were faint, and the third diminished as he watched, fading by the moment.

"I can't feel them," she said, voice quavering. She stood abruptly, marching over to the mirror in the corner of the room so fast it was almost a sprint. She unbuttoned the silk top of her robes with clumsy fingers, and inspected the reflection of her bared stomach, touching it in disbelief.

Harry averted his eyes a little, but still caught a glimpse of unspoiled pale skin.

"It took four healers a month even to stop the curses from spreading," she said. "And you cure them in a single instant? What spell was that? Teach it to me."

"Why, are you planning to get cursed again?" asked Harry. She snorted, and fixed her clothing before whirling to face him.

"I plan on living my life without fear of being cursed," she said. "I can be brave if I must take risks to face dark wizards, but I will defang those monsters if I can."

"Good answer," admitted Harry. "But I'm afraid you're still cursed. I just healed the damage. Healed it all the way, mind you, until only the tiniest speck of malign intent resides within you, but those three specks are dark curses which demand specific countercurses. Countercurses I can't cast."

"Why not?" demanded Gabrielle. "If you can do this much, why not that? The healers cast the countercurses over and over but didn't accomplish what you have done." Harry shrugged, and turned over to lie on his back. He watched the ceiling, where a spider the size of his head crawled towards its web, stretching all the way from midpoint of the room to the arch above the door. The spider looked oddly familiar, and far too large.

"I don't know the countercurses," said Harry. "I can heal your body, ease the symptoms, roll back the damage done to flesh and blood and bone - but I don't have a wand. A countercurse is a precision instrument, the enantiomorph of the curse."

He snapped his fingers, and the webbing ignited. The spider fell to the floor with a thump, rolling over onto its legs with the rustling noise of parchment being rubbed together. It gestured menacingly at him with mandibles the size of pencils, drops of lurid green venom visible on the tips of its fangs.

Before Gabrielle had time to flinch at the sudden intrusion of a giant spider, Harry leapt to his feet, grasped the spider by the abdomen, and hauled it over to the window. He pulled the shutters open with his other hand and placed the spider on the outer sill of the window.

"Aragog would have been very clear when he instructed you to approach me while I was outside the castle," he hissed to the acromantula. "Be glad he is not here to see your disobedience, or he would devour you." He slammed the window shut, dislodging the infant acromantula and sending it falling to the ground. It skittered away towards the forest, hugging the shadows of the castle rather than risk the open lawns.

Harry turned back to face Gabrielle and gave her a winning smile, pretending that nothing had just happened.

"Any of your healers will be able to dispel the curses now," he said. "They're as weak as they can possibly be. The rejuvenation will hold for long enough to get them to finish things off."

"I thought British spiders were supposed to be small," Gabrielle said weakly. Harry shrugged.

"He's an immigrant. Don't worry about it."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"I really do need to go see a spider about a man," said Harry. Dumbledore shook his head, an amused twinkle in his eye and in the dimples of his cheeks which were almost visible from where his beard dipped inwards ever so slightly.

"There'll be plenty of time for that after dinner, Harry," he said. Harry shook his head, now, although without the amused twinkle.

"The acromantula are creepy enough in daylight, and it's almost pitch black in their nest even at midday. I do a lot of stupid things, but I'm never going to be stupid enough to wander into an acromantula nest in the pitch-black evening, fat as a calf after a ludicrous feast. I've seen the house elves' store rooms. The amount of food they've made is insane. Just walking through the Great Hall will make me reek so strongly of boiled goose that the spiders will come after me with eight sets of silverware apiece!"

"Whatever tiny vestige of a house elf is left within me is livid at the suggestion that Hogwarts might serve boiled goose at a Welcoming Feast," said Thistles. Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed her arm pleadingly.

"Come on, you can convince him. Try smiling. Creepy old men love it when girls smile at them."

Thistles patted Harry on the arm and smiled at him.

"You can get eaten by spiders tomorrow, my sweet."

Harry sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. Nobody was listening except to smile and nod. This was the price to pay for never taking anything seriously, he supposed. When life dropped you an urgent dispatch via spider courier, nobody would believe you.

"Look, you've met Aragog, right Professor? He's an honest soul. Says what he means, sort of thing. He wouldn't summon me unless he has a good reason."

"I have had the dubious pleasure, yes," he said. "Although we were both considerably younger and smaller back then. It must be almost sixty years, come to think of it. Truly remarkable that he's still alive." Dumbledore stared into the distance wistfully, gazing out of his window and over the forest.

"Wrong direction," said Harry sulkily. "The acromantula nest is to the west."

"Perhaps I'll go with you to see the old fellow tomorrow," said Dumbledore. "It has been far too long, and the headmaster should be familiar with the denizens of Hogwarts, don't you think?"

Harry looked the older man up and down speculatively.

"I suppose you are a bit too bony to make a good meal, so they probably wouldn't bother trying to eat you. Although I'm not going to stop them from eating you if they fancy giving it a go."

"Ah, Harry, I have no doubt that you'll be able to keep me safe and sound in the darkest shadows of the forest, have no fear." Harry snorted, and Thistles shook her head in exasperation.

"I don't mean that I'm unable to stop them, Professor," he said. "I mean I'm not going to bother trying."

Dumbledore just laughed, and Harry's scowl made him laugh even harder. Thistles tapped Harry's leg with her long fingers playfully, and he met her gaze to see the corners of her mouth also turned up in mirth.

"He knows you're lying," she said.

"Shut up," replied Harry.

"I've come to suspect," she began, leaning forwards conspiratorially. "That my grouchy little Harry is actually rather fond of you, Albus." She tapped the side of her nose in mock secrecy.

"Oh, Albus is it now?"

"It always was," said the headmaster. "You're welcome to use my name as well if you wish, my boy. Hogwarts has always been a family to me."

"Whatever you say, Brian," scoffed Harry. Dumbledore grinned.

"And even in defiance, you give away that you care enough to remember my middle name," he said. "I'm pleased to see you warming up to me at last."

"You're talking balderdash, Wulfric," said Harry. The headmaster opened his mouth to reply, but Harry held up a finger to hush him. "And not one word out of you either, Percival."

"What does one man need with so many names?" asked Thistles. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers expectantly. There was an air of anticipation in the way he cleared his throat, and Harry groaned in expectation of a speech.

"It is my experience that a man might often find himself in possession of a more things than he truly needs," he said. "For example, take this." He gestured around his office, where exquisite antiques and twinkling silver instruments sat side by side. "I don't know what half of these things are or what they do, only that they're far too useful and precious to ever give away. And so they sit here on a shelf at Hogwarts, turned from priceless to worthless from lack of use. I hope that a headmaster who comes after me will be better able to appreciate the things which are a mystery to me, just as I was able to appreciate some of the objects handed down by my predecessor."

Thistles pursed her lips and looked around, looking at struts and weights and cables of silvery metals all balanced against one another in different arrangements. Seemingly at random, she picked one from the shelf, and pointed at it.

"What does this one do?" she asked.

"Paperweight," said Harry.

"It measures the barometric pressure of the sky in the Great Hall," said Dumbledore. "I believe it can be influenced to change the weather that the ceiling shows, but I've never been able to figure out how."

"Paperweight," repeated Harry. "It holds down bits of paper so they don't blow away in the hot air every time you have a parent-teacher conference in here."

Against his better wishes, Harry was escorted down to the feast by the headmaster himself. Thistles skipped along behind him, seemingly excited to be there.

"What's with you?" asked Harry, looking at her suspiciously. She spun around suddenly, dress whirling about and fanning out with the sudden motion, and looked at him with glee.

"Albus is letting me try on his favourite hat," she said. Harry raised an eyebrow, but she didn't elaborate.

"Has anyone explained the Sorting Ceremony to you yet Harry?" he asked. Harry shook his head.

"Only that the students are split up into four different dormitories. Why?"

"The Sorting Hat is an artifact from the school's founders. Legend has it that it was enchanted by Godric Gryffindor himself, after whom the Gryffindor house is named. One simply places the hat upon one's head, and it will select a house for you based on the qualities it detects within you." Dumbledore strolled along as he spoke, but spared a sidelong glance at Harry. "If you'd like to try it on as well, you're more than welcome. I have a feeling you'll be a Gryffindor."

"I don't know what that means, but I'll pass on that offer," said Harry. "Thistles can keep that dubious honour for herself. And the hundred or so children whose head-lice she'll be sharing."

"The Hat is bespelled against lice," said Thistles. "I checked. I don't want larvae growing in my stamen."

"In your what now?" asked Harry.

"Don't worry about it."

"Ah, Harry!" called Malfoy. "Over here!" The blonde man raised a hand to wave Harry over. Reluctantly, but seeing that empty seats at the staff table were beginning to fill up, Harry went over. Thistles jumped readily into the seat beside him.

"So everybody's on first name terms now, are they?" he muttered to himself before plastering a fake smile onto his face. "Hi Draco. I hope your meeting with Snape was productive."

Malfoy nodded, looking pleased with himself.

"Exceptionally so. I was a bit concerned we were short on time, what with that disaster beforehand and all, but it all worked out. I'm actually a little glad that all happened, can you believe it? It certainly helped liven things up a bit in another dreary day of professionally rubbing elbows. The story will be fun to tell, and that's always good. You know how it is - you get home and it's all 'welcome home dear, how was your day?' and you say 'good, how was yours' and she says the same but you know you're both lying because you look concussed from the most dreary eight hours of your life rattling by with nothing happening. You know?"

Harry looked at Malfoy quizzically.

"No, I'm not married," he replied.

"Oh," said Malfoy. "My apologies. I saw the two of you come to dinner together, and I assumed that you were partners."

"We are!" chirped Thistles brightly, smiling at Malfoy. Harry cleared his throat.

"Work partners," he said firmly. "Thistles here is a skilled herbologist. She's helping me catalogue the flora of the Forbidden Forest." Thistles pouted, and kicked Harry's leg under the table. He ignored her, so she did it again. "We came in with Dumbledore as well, and I assure you I have no romantic leanings in that direction."

"I'm in no place to judge a man for what he does in a job interview," said Malfoy gamely. Harry choked, and grabbed a goblet of pumpkin juice to hide his face in while he worked out what expression to wear.

"I cried like a house elf in mine," said Thistles.

"You did," agreed Harry, rolling his eyes. On the other side of Malfoy he could see Snape doing the same and felt an unlikely camaraderie with the Potions Master.

As much as he'd protested the indulgence of the Welcoming Feast, by the time the students were lined up ready to be sorted, his stomach was rumbling in anticipation.

"Are you going to join the queue?" he asked Thistles. She shook her head.

"I think I might avoid the spectacle and wait until everyone's eating. Dumbledore promised to bring the hat over to me." Harry nodded, ignoring Malfoy's inquiring look, and topped up his goblet. He saw Snape pour something out of a flask into his, and nodded again in understanding and empathy. At least the children were being quiet now, as they watched the ceremony unfold.

It felt like hours passed before the line of children had been shuttled off to the various house tables, but Harry glanced at the ceiling to watch the moon's slow progress across the sky. It wasn't so late as all that. Dark had fallen, but the moon was close enough to full that it shone brightly. As he watched the moon, he felt the thrum of excitement, quicksilver veins and fluttering stomach in eagerness for the night of the full moon, the only time at which he could carry out the ritual he'd spent all this time preparing for.

"The last man I saw stare at the moon that eagerly was a werewolf," commented Malfoy. Harry jerked out of his thoughts.

"When did you meet a werewolf?" he asked.

"Oh, there was one as a teacher here a few years back. Of course, he left as soon as people found out."

"Remus, right, you're about the same age as Granger, aren't you?" said Harry, speaking more aloud to himself than to Malfoy.

"And then there was the other one," said Malfoy, his voice a little more sombre. He stared at his empty plate for a moment, and then looked back to Harry.

"Wait, did you say Granger? How on earth do you know her? I can't imagine her social circle is particularly wide."

"She ended up as my probation officer, or something like that. Nobody else could be bothered to deal with me, but as I'd just been arrested for breaching the Statute of Secrecy, gross property damage, and reckless endangerment of a herd of muggles, I needed dealt with. Apparently."

"Whose property did you damage?" asked Malfoy, stiffening in his chair.

"The muggles'."

Malfoy relaxed to hear those words. "Oh, that's alright then. Muggles can hardly even own property, legally. Nobody important will be upset with you over that. I expect they only really cared about the Statute, and that's always getting breached. Muggles don't notice half the time, don't care the other half, and for any other situations, well, there's a whole department of Obliviators on standby at all hours."

"So you're saying that by breaking the Statute I'm helping to create jobs for wizards?" asked Harry.

Malfoy laughed. "That's a good way to put it. Yes, your only crime was contributing to the wizarding economy. I'll drink to that," he said, raising his goblet in mock toast. Harry knocked it with his goblet, and the brassy cups pealed like bells.


	13. Chapter 13

It was the day after the feast, and Harry stood outside Hagrid's hut, rubbing down Buckbeak with a coarse piece of sackcloth.

"You're like a razorblade that can fly, you know that?" asked Harry. Buckbeak preened, poking at his feathers with his beak to fluff them up. Harry swatted him on the side of the neck. "No, that's not a compliment you pointy birdmonster. What did poor Sebastian ever do to you?"

Buckbeak crowed, and stomped at the sod with a taloned foot. Harry rolled his eyes, nudging the hippogriff over a little so it didn't claw apart one of Hagrid's pumpkins. Perhaps a pumpkin patch wasn't the best place to negotiate with a flying monster, but Grubbly-Plank had bitched at Harry until he agreed not to take Buckbeak back into the Forbidden Forest with the other hippogriffs.

"Yeah, yeah, you saved the girl. But you couldn't stop yourself from getting a cheap shot in after, could you? Very noble of you to maul a thestral while it's down."

The hippogriff ruffled his wings and shifted. Harry swore the beast actually looked a little abashed, but Buckbeak's mind was still proving elusive, so he wasn't able to back up his crude interpretation of hippogriff body language with anything more than a guess.

"He'll be alright, no thanks to you. But don't you dare do it again. No mauling things, or I'll tell Hagrid on you."

Buckbeak ducked his head, stepping forwards and poking his head under Harry's arm. He mewled pitifully, and nosed at Harry's armpit. Harry repressed a laugh at the unexpected tickling sensation, and shoved the beast's head away.

"Enough of that," he said, grousing good-naturedly. "Everyone gets one for free, so you're off the hook this time. No mauling things unless I tell you to from now on. Deal?"

Buckbeak chirped.

"You shouldn't coddle him like that," said Professor Grubbly-Plank. She was lurking beside Hagrid's hut, arms folded over her chest and a particularly Snape-like expression on her face.

"Coddle?" exclaimed Harry, voice full of mock outrage. "I just scolded this naughty little toerag within an inch of his life. I threatened to tell on him. He knows I'm serious."

Grubbly-Plank snorted, and wandered over to Buckbeak. She lifted his wing, nothing gentle about the motion, and peered at the heavy shackle around his ankle. Buckbeak squawked as she yanked his wing, but didn't resist.

She pursed her lips, and then shook her head in disapproval. Her wand was out a moment later, and with a mumbled word the chains fastening Buckbeak to an iron stake in the ground grew taut. There was another mumble, then the sound of a hammer striking metal in the air, and the stake was driven an inch deeper into the soil.

"I've instructed the headmaster on this matter," she said with a sniff. "Buckbeak will spend some time in isolation to curb his violent tendencies. Your responsibility is to keep the students away from him, bring him food, and clean up after him. You will not let him loose."

Harry rolled his eyes. Grubbly-Plank drew herself up to her full height - tall for a woman, so she was almost at eye level with him as he slouched. He returned her look, but not with the same vitriol, only boredom at her bossy posturing.

"I will be informing Professor Dumbledore if the beast goes missing," she said, a note of accusation in her voice. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes for a third time, wholly unimpressed by the woman.

"That's a bit harsh," he said, already planning to break the chains as soon as Grubbly-Plank was back in the castle. He was beginning to really dislike this woman. First her careless treatment of the thestrals, and now she was being spiteful towards Buckbeak? Harry felt a little guilty because he was partly to blame for setting her off, but mostly he was revolted by a woman who would mistreat creatures to sate her own bad moods. "Don't take things out on Buckbeak just because I've pissed you off," he said.

She grabbed him by the robes and pulled him away. Harry tensed for a moment, but decided to go with it and not fight back. For now. Once they were a few dozen steps away, with the timber of Hagrid's home as a barrier between them and Buckbeak, she stopped to lean in to hiss at Harry.

"Mister Potter," she whispered, enunciating each syllable. "I am the Professor for Care of Magical Creatures. You may not hold much respect for that office, but rest assured I know what I am doing. Buckbeak is here for his protection - thestrals hold intense grudges, and if Sebastian does not recover easily, the herd may well seek vengeance. Hippogriffs are proud creatures. Buckbeak would not be willing to hide for fear of his safety, but he has sufficient nobility of spirit to take responsibility and accept a punishment for his own wrongdoing. A trait you would do well to emulate."

Harry blinked. Grubbly-Plank's breath was hot and foul against his face, and he wrinkled his nose against the smell, which was somehow worse than the natural animal odour of Buckbeak. He begrudgingly admitted that there was something to her words, and shrugged in response. Maybe she was right. She let go off his robes and stormed off, heading back towards the castle.

She was still a bitch, though.

x-x-x-x-x-x

The ground shifted, and the air thickened, and the wind between the trees was a dull roar in the distance. Harry bent over and vomited noisily on the roots of an ash tree. It recoiled at the acid of his bile, and then begrudgingly thanked him for the gift of salt and spit and half-digested food with a rustle of leaves.

Thistles retched a short distance away. A cloud of spores fell from her lips, staining her chin and dress even as most of them drifted away from her. She cursed, and shot Harry a baleful glare.

"What is that?" she asked weakly, hiccoughing as she spoke. She ran the back of a hand over her mouth, and the spores vanished beneath it.

"That's the acromantula nest," said Harry.

"It's disgusting. A sour note in the harmony of magic. The forest is screaming."

"For all that you're not a real girl, you're being awfully fussy about some spiders," said Harry, mocking her half-heartedly. His face was pale, as well, and his heart thudded wanly in his chest. Somehow the sensation of alien magic was even worse this time. He glanced over at Thistles speculatively, and focused on the part of his mind which was linked to her power.

Dizziness shot through him like a blow. He put a hand on the trunk of the ash to steady himself, and the bark writhed at his touch like a sea of caterpillars.

"Is this your doing?" he choked out, trying and failing to separate his consciousness from hers. She nodded, and retched again.

"You made me out of this forest," she said at last when the dry-heaving had subsided. "Its magic lies closer to the surface for you now. It's louder. And it's screaming for help."

Harry groaned, and tried to listen to the thrum of magic in the air. The dissonance of the acromantula nest warped the feeling of power in the forest, making his skin crawl and teeth hum as if they were vibrating. He shuddered but forced his way through the discomfort. He let his awareness flow over the beat of his heart and the pulsing of his blood, tensing with magic and muscles to synchronize the rhythms of his body with the arcane dissonance emanating from the monstrous spiders.

As his body settled, he began to relax - not comfortable, not quite, but dropping into an alien headspace which matched the feel of the acromantula. The pulse of his magic was muted and accelerated at once, spilling out of him with the same polluting footprint of the acromantula's magic. It was only a farce, a construct of magic to disguise him within and without, but Harry felt strange and light-headed and not altogether himself. But he was coherent, and the nausea had faded, so he stood upright and stepped away from the crutch of the tree.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Thistles, leaping away from him. She jumped backwards, upwards, with inhuman grace, catching herself high in the branches of a tree where she crouched and bared her teeth. "You feel wrong."

Harry cocked his head, his head feeling odd and weightless as he did so. He fought the urge to blink eyes he didn't have and taste the ground with phantom limbs.

"It's only temporary," he said. "It makes it bearable. Come here, I'll do the same to you. It feels weird but it doesn't hurt."

Thistles screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear or anger, but a red-throated warning. Her glamour slipped for a moment, and Harry saw how her eyes had gone from iridescent gems to dull and dark and full of death. She was hunched over like an animal, hands and feet gripping the branches and shoulders raised like the hackles of a dog.

"I'll kill you if you try," she said, her voice flat. Harry paused, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. She let out the scream again, and this time, when her glamour dropped she left it off and hissed through inhuman teeth.

"Okay," said Harry. "Peace. I won't."

"Stop doing it to yourself," she demanded. "Be yourself again. I don't like this."

Harry twitched, feeling the movement of centaurs in the distance by the minute impact of their hooves against the forest floor. The earth was a web made from a single thick thread of stone, and it spoke to him of everything which happened upon its surface.

"I need to speak to Aragog," he said. "I can't go stumbling and vomiting into an acromantula nest. They're obligate predators. If I show weakness like that they won't be able to stop themselves from attacking me."

"Good. Then you can kill them all. It's what the forest wants."

"I need them," said Harry. "At least a little longer." Thistles hissed again.

"You're a thorn in my mind right now," she said. "I can't pluck you out, but I won't look at you while you're singing a spider's monster-song. Don't find me until you're a man again."

And then she was gone, fallen away into the boughs of the tree. She sank into the wood, and as her features disappeared into it Harry felt his awareness of her fade. It didn't vanish, not entirely, but it was muted as if she was speaking from a great distance and underwater at once.

"I'm not doing this for fun," Harry grumbled. He strode deeper into the forest, following the hum of the nest against his senses. Now that he had altered his presence to resemble the acromantula, there was a sort of resonance between him and them, a homing beacon luring him closer.

X-x-x-x-x-x

Mandibles clicked and spiders chittered. The acromantula nest was as dark as Harry remembered, and yet he found himself able to see every one of the arachnids clearly, even when he wasn't looking. The weight of their legs on rock and tree and web sent shudders through the world which Harry was able to feel. The urge to reply with a dance of tapped legs rose within him, and he found that he was only able to resist the impulse because he didn't have the requisite limbs to reply in kind.

The subtle shaking of the nest was a chorus of acromantulas speaking. The words lingered on the edge of Harry's understanding. Listening through his limbs was akin to staring into an abyss and seeing the velvet darkness move. He felt as if he stood on the precipice of something, a connection to the sum of all the arachnids clustered around him. He pulled his magic tighter around himself like a cloak, and stepped away from the edge.

Some of his nausea from earlier crept back, but Harry felt a pressure lift from his mind. He felt a little more like himself and less like a spider.

Aragog sighed in disappointment, the titanic spider's body creaking like an ancient tree in a gale.

"For a moment I felt you stand on my web like one of us," he said, settling down on the loam. Harry sat on a fallen tree a few metres away. He was easily within Aragog's reach, but not so close that he wouldn't be able to react if the creature lunged. For all that the beast was cordial with him, the guise of spider magic around him whispered secrets of arachnid instincts, telling him that their world was split into acromantula and prey.

Harry refused to be prey, but he didn't want to be a spider either. He resolved to show them that he was a monster in a category of his own, just as his giant friend Hagrid was. Human in shape and size, perhaps, but not that kind of easy meat.

"Hmmm," droned Aragog, studying Harry with all eight eyes. "It is custom among humans to eat together as a sign of friendship, is it not?" Harry inclined his head in agreement. "Then let us sup together, as friends of Hagrid, and discuss our agreement." Aragog made a peculiar shivering motion, a mix of body language in twitches and a staccato beat of legs against the ground. Harry felt it in his nails and teeth and the hair on the back of his neck. He couldn't translate what was said into words, but it evoked a feeling of insatiable hunger within him.

A spider the size of a pony crashed through the undergrowth, its normal alien grace hindered by the carcass of a deer it dragged behind it. Then acromantula dumped the body at Aragog's feet, and Aragog tore a chunk of flesh free.

Harry tried not to watch too closely as Aragog stuffed the haunch of meat into his mouth with bloodied mandibles.

He exhaled quickly through his nose and stood, recognising his cue. He let magic suffuse his nails, turning them hard and sharp, and drove a hand into the belly of the deer like it was a claw. Even through the animal's fur coat, he could see veins standing out thick and black, despoiled by the venom of the acromantula which had killed it. It only took a few motions for him to dig through the viscera and find the animal's liver. He pulled it free and lifted it to his mouth, blood running down his chin as he tore pieces loose.

As he ate, he stared unblinking into Aragog's eyes, refusing to cowed by the proximity of the spider's bloody maw. Harry couldn't tell if this was a test, a trap, or a sincere offer of friendship. He wondered if Aragog had even picked which of those it was, or if the spider was waiting for his reaction to decide.

The meat was suffused with venom, giving it a rank and bitter taste. Harry let the flavour roll around his mouth, and swallowed. The venom passed into him and through him. He rubbed the tips of his fingers together, and thick wet beads formed at the end of them. The venom coagulated like treacle and then dripped away onto the mulch beneath his feet. A leaf curled up, sizzling and browning at the touch of a single drop.

When the gory meal was over, Harry wiped his mouth clean and sat back on the tree.

"I got your messenger," he said, ignoring the roiling in his gut. "Do you have the news I asked you for?"

Aragog rubbed his forelegs together, making a sound like parchment being crumpled.

"The wolves of the forest are riled. Their neverborn kin are active, as you said. It distresses them, lending a pleasing tang to their flesh. Dread is the finest flavour of fear, and they are very afraid indeed."

"The wolves are afraid of werewolves?" asked Harry.

"Of the one who leads them. He hunts men by choice, but when there are no men to kill, he turns on his cousins. They say he enjoys the challenge. The chase. The sacrilege of devouring flesh so like his own."

"Strange to hear you criticise him for that," said Harry. "I thought acromantula were cannibals by nature?"

Aragog hissed, and the chorus of spiders in the background pushed forwards like a wave. He halted them with a fierce stamp of one leg.

"Acromantula eat one another to preserve the life of the nest. The weak die to sustain the great, and the unruly are sacrificed to retain the order of my law. It is our holy calling. It is in our nature to kill one another, but we do it because that is what we are, not simply for fun."

"Yeah, but that still ends up with an acromantula in your belly. I don't see much difference."

"It is an insult to call us the same," said Aragog. Harry noticed a sudden tension in the spider's body, a tightening of the exoskeleton where his legs met his body, and the way that the background acromantula were beginning to slink away cautiously.

Harry frowned. He didn't get it, but he wasn't going to make a fuss over something so petty. If the overgrown spider wanted to be hypocritical and claim that only acromantula could eat one another and retain the moral high ground, so be it. He shook his head, and changed the subject.

"Where can I find him?" he asked.

"It is good that you would offer to slay him in reparations for this slight," said Aragog, drawing himself up to his full and terrifying height. Harry snorted at the spider's assumption. "But you will not succeed. He is surrounded by dozens of his wanton ilk, lolling about on the furthest edge of the forest."

"Which edge?" asked Harry.

Aragog gestured with two legs, and Harry turned to look in that direction. He couldn't tell if there were any werewolves there, but the forest was vast, and the pollution of acromantula magic in the air was stifling his senses.

"By the human village," said Aragog.

Harry grimaced and looked to the sky, what little of it could be seen through the thick press of trees. He had wanted to wait until Halloween, but it seemed like the world moved on whether he wanted it to or not. That was fine. A full moon would do just as well.

The only problem with that was the renegade werewolf roaming nearby.

X-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Remus, when's the next full moon?" shouted Harry, barging into the Shrieking Shack.

There was a sigh upstairs, muffled by the floorboards between them, and then footsteps. Harry grinned, and leapt upstairs to meet the other man. He took the stairs four at a time, and arrived in the doorway just as Lupin pulled it open.

"Hello," he said, smiling cheerfully at the older man. Lupin just stepped back, holding the door open so Harry could come into the battered and bedraggled farce of a living room. "It still baffles me that you're actually living here," he said. "Why not just pop in and out, as and when you need to?"

"I want to be close to hand in case something happens," explained Lupin. "The Death Eaters sometimes thrown up anti-Apparition wards before an attack comes. Nobody can get in or out until they're broken, which is always too late for someone."

Harry grunted in acknowledgement and flopped his way onto the sofa. It was even more threadbade than his last visit.

"Have you been chewing on this?" he demanded.

"Not since the last full moon, no," replied Lupin, his voice deadpan. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Fuck your tea, I came here for the secret knowledge of werewolves. Tell me when the next full moon is. Go on, I'll keep it a secret."

Harry bounced on his seat eagerly, looking up at Lupin expectantly. The werewolf picked a book up off a chair. It lay face-down, open at the page he'd been reading before Harry had interrupted. He slid a bookmark between the pages and closed the tome with a thump. A small cloud of dust rose into the air, and Lupin sneezed.

"You can crash at my place if you like," suggested Harry, pulling a face at the sight of the dust. "It's just up to road. Nice and roomy, though a few extra guests at the minute."

"I appreciate the offer, Harry," said Lupin dryly. "But I've no wish to be run off the premises by an angry mob. It's been a few years since I taught at Hogwarts, but there will undoubtedly be letters going to parents the moment I step foot on the grounds."

Harry cocked his head, puzzling that out for a moment.

"None of the students will recognise you, surely. Would any of them even have attended one of your classes before? I doubt that children pay much attention to the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers their older siblings had."

Lupin shook his head, firmly, raising a hand in a gesture that also said no.

"It wouldn't be the students," he said, and Harry understood. He leaned back on the sofa, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.

"What if Snape had an accident? Nothing permanent, but something to keep him out of the way for a few weeks."

Lupin snorted, hiding a laugh, and placed the book gently on the floor. Harry noticed that he took care to place it on the single clean rug in the building, and not directly on the grimy floorboards.

"The thought will keep me warm at night, so thank you for that offer, but no," he said. "Why do you want to know about the full moon?"

"Magic," said Harry easily.

"If you had studied magic at Hogwarts, you would have had an Astronomy lesson. You'd have learned all about the stars and planets and, yes, even the moon." Lupin leaned forwards, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "You wouldn't even have to use a wand."

Harry groaned, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Enough with you and Granger and McGonagall and this whole scholarly inquisition. Let me wallow in my ignorance like the mighty hippopotamus."

Lupin gave him an odd look, but didn't question it.

"Four days until my next change," he said, finally answering Harry's original question. Harry sat upright, the childish flailing gone, and his demeanour suddenly serious.

"Alright, good. That's enough time for me to finish my preparations. I'm bringing my ritual forwards. I want to be fully armed before any conflict, if at all possible. The problem is that I need an important night to do it on. Halloween, an equinox, Dumbledore's birthday. Anything would do. The nearest window is the full moon."

"Is this about your elf?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, Thistles was an accident. This one was my original plan. His name is Each-Uisge. A water horse. I mentioned it to you before, sort of. This is the path to power which may help me unknot your curse."

"The last time you went meddling around with magic you didn't understand, you turned a house elf into a hobgoblin," joked Lupin.

"She's not a hobgoblin anymore," replied Harry. Lupin just raised an eyebrow in response, waiting for Harry to continue. "Now she's something new, caught partway between elder fae and primal creature. I don't even know what she is. I've never seen anything like her before."

Harry folded his hands in his lap, bitten once again by that mix of guilt and curiosity which rose whenever he thought about the ordeal he'd put Thistles through, the being he'd transformed her into. She looked and acted like she was almost human, but he knew she was very far from it.

After a moment of watching Harry's expressions change, Lupin rose from the chair and walked over, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Doesn't that prove my point?" he asked softly.

Harry let out a long breath through his nostrils, and closed his eyes, just for a moment. When he opened them again he'd recovered his poise.

"My point," Harry said. "Is that I can do incredible things, if I'm in the right place, with the right power. Each-Uisge will open more doors for me, but Greyback is lurking out there. After what you've told me about him, I'm uneasy leaving the castle during the full moon. You said it right yourself. If something happens I want to be here."

To Harry's surprise, Lupin smiled, and sat down beside him. He patted Harry's knee consolingly, and then pulled away. The sudden paternal affection was awkward, but not unpleasant, and Harry returned his smile, if weakly.

"If my recent intelligence is accurate," began Lupin. "Greyback is planning to spend this full moon on a recruitment drive. He'll go meet with one of the bigger packs, whip them up into a blood frenzy, and make sweet promises that every day can be as free and wild as hunting under the night sky. One night away from the castle won't do any harm."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Poison to corrupt," said Harry, tossing the hagbloat mushroom into the air. He caught it with fingers of air, pressing down on the surface until it erupted with spores. Lightning-blue and loathsome, they hung in the air around it like the rings of Saturn. "Salt to cleanse." He carved a deep red line in the flesh of his arm with his ritual dagger, a blade of hardened mistletoe. The dripping blood veered away from contact with the rock beneath his feet, falling down almost to the ground and then upwards as if being poured against gravity.

He inhaled deeply, and let go of the dagger's handle. It did not fall, but disappeared into nothingness, waiting. His blood pooled in the air, a mirror-flat surface beneath the mushroom, thinner and brighter than the blade he'd used to draw it.

"Springwater for the land, and saltwater for the sea," he said, unstoppering a flask and pouring it out, then repeating with another. The water streamed out to join his blood, the liquids mixing together, moving through shades of red and pink and white, freezing in mid-air into a pane of translucent scarlet ice.

The pool beneath him roiled like an ocean in a storm.

"Iron to bind," he said, pulling out a horseshoe battered and dusty from use, the nails still attached. He grasped it firmly, ignoring the sharp thorns of pain as the nails drove inch-deep in the meat of his palms, and bent the edges of the horseshoe until it formed a crude circle. "Iron to bind with the strength of my hands and the salt of my blood, to hold against harm and hope and hearth."

Harry held up the distorted horseshoe so the full moon could be seen through the hole in the centre. The light deepened, and slowed, and clung to form a soap-bubble lens. He tossed it into the air, and it rose in orbit around the hagbloat. The moonlight shone fiercer overhead, and fiercest still where it passed through the lens and transformed into a tangible beam of white light which struck the mushroom, pushing it down onto the pane of glass-like ice, into the ice, suffusing it with the power of the moon. It was a thing of transformation and madness, a moment of joy and despair. Harry felt the wildness of magic potential rise around him.

"And," he added, numb and overcome by the momentum of the ritual which rose like mercury in his veins, "a thistle for luck." He dropped the small purple flower, anchored his will against the sun and the stars, and let the moon move through him.

The ice shattered, and Harry felt his mind shatter with it. Mountains howled.

Broken glass fell into the pool, a poisonous spore and lunar power held within each broken crystal, falling through a surface torn by tidal forces into vicious waves. The pool stilled, and froze, and shone.

The world was ice and water. Harry couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Thick fronds of seaweed were wrapped around his limbs and throat, pulling him down into the abyss. There was no light or warmth, only cold and pressure as the depths of the ocean crushed him with the weight of untold millions of tonnes of water and hate.

His lungs burned, and he struggled, trying to pull himself free, but every motion only burned precious oxygen from his body and left him choking on his will until at last he couldn't help it any longer and opened his mouth to breathe in frozen thunder of the ocean.

Harry reached out to the furthest edges of his mind, calling for the earth and sky, for the kingdoms of nature to push his heart and inflate his lungs, but there was no answer. Stars which were not stars swam in front of his eyes as he flailed at the edge of unconsciousness. Harry closed off his attempt to reach out to external wells of power, and focused himself inwards, to the light which fuelled his life. It was a candle against the depth and dark of the ocean, and he warmed himself against it for only a moment.

With the last of his power Harry overrode his dying body, synthesising oxygen directly into his brain and lungs, generating kinetic forces within his body to pump his heart where the muscle itself had failed, and igniting the lightning which lived in his blood.

He warmed himself for only a moment, and then there was only the ocean, and the cold, and the dark.

And then death.

For only a moment. And then teeth like glaciers closed on the scruff of his neck, hauling him up, out, the strangling fronds of seaweed no longer pulling him down but up, and he felt the tug of the moon in his heart as a tidal wave launching him up until he was flung up through the water, and the pale watery glow of the moon distorted through fathoms of water grew stronger and brighter and then -

And then he stood on the surface of an endless sea of water which stretched to the horizon in every direction. The full moon hung in a sky without stars, and Each-Uisge was a monolith of ice before him.

The ice cracked as he moved, revealing water whipping around in rapid currents beneath his skin as if muscles made from pure motion. The water horse lowered his head and exhaled. The titanic creature's breath froze the air, but warmed Harry's body.

At the sensation of warmth in his limbs once more, Harry opened his eyes, and then opened his eyes again, and he was standing back in the chalybeate spring where he'd conducted the ritual. Each-Uisge stood on the frozen surface of the pool, realised in the world as a creature of flesh and blood.

"My ocean is yours to command," it intoned, stamping at the ice with one hoof. "What is your wish?"

"Everything," whispered Harry, and then collapsed. Green arms wrapped around him. He was utterly spent.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mortals are fleeting," Harry heard Each-Uisge declare as he rose back to the waking world. "They come and go like strikes of lightning. Bright and loud, perhaps, but gone in an instant. Insignificant, unless you are in the exact spot where they strike, and then, in that moment, they can be infinity."

"Does that mean lightning has struck twice, to bring us both here?" This new voice was familiar, tickling at his mind as he heard the words both through his ears and his magic. It sounded peculiar, giving Thistles' voice an echoing doubled-tone. Harry focused his will to re-establish the floodgates in his mind which prevented the intrusion of magic through his connection to the fae creature.

"Lightning will strike this mortal over and over," said the water horse. "He stands at a nexus of fate, with all the world spinning in his wake. Blind and shackled, he would still be the instrument of destiny."

"I have no destiny," said Harry weakly. Thistles pressed a long-fingered hand to his forehead, and then her cheek against his.

"You were gone from my reach," she said. "I couldn't reach you for all my power. There was nothing. I was alone." She was wearing her natural form, green and bright. A man stood some distance away, shirtless and heavily muscled, wearing tight breeches of an old-fashioned design. His hair was wet.

Harry looked around, taking in his surroundings. It was a cave of red rock, and he could hear water rushing nearby. There were cracks and fissures in the walls of the cave which looked recent. He frowned.

"Are we still at the chalybeate spring?" he asked.

The man who was not a man nodded.

"Aye," he said in Each-Uisge's voice. "Yon elf carried you here that you might rest."

"Thanks doesn't seem like enough," Harry began, but Thistles hushed him, and touched his eyes and lips and throat, sending soothing waves through his body.

"You have fulfilled your pact, Finder. By use of a profane ritual to corrode the grasp of sacred iron. The punishment for trespassing in the realms of the gods is death."

"I didn't die," said Harry, sitting up, and fighting back the urge to cough.

"Didn't you?" asked Each-Uisge. The urge to cough built and built in Harry's chest until he finally spluttered through clenched teeth, the cough turning into open-mouthed retching. Harry vomited up seawater, more than he thought a human body could possibly hold. It left a film of algae on the roof of his mouth and the inside of his teeth. He ran a finger around the inside of his mouth in disgust, pulling out the green slime and wiping it into the rocks.

Thistles held a fruit the size of a gourd to his lips, using one hand to guide Harry's head back so she could pour sweet juice into his mouth. He swilled it around his mouth, and swallowed. Renewed energy rose as a warmth in his gut.

Each-Uisge cocked his head, sending drips of water flying across the cave.

"I am compelled to ask a question of you, who would go so far to secure my power for your own. Why not simply sacrifice the blacksmith's descendants? Human sacrifice has always won favour from beyond the realms of men."

Harry grimaced.

"It would have been easy, wouldn't it?" he said to the air. "Perhaps that's why. Blood sacrifice can solve any problem, if only you spill enough of it."

"Mortals," said Each-Uisge dismissively. Thistles rested her head against Harry's, not turning to look at the inhuman man as she spoke.

"Would you have preferred that Harry killed them?" she asked. Her voice was nonchalant and innocent - not challenging his opinion, but simply asking for it.

"Hmph," snorted Each-Uisge. "Generations upon generations of mortals have diluted their sin. They are chaff in the wind to me, but it is the proper form of things." He paused, looking contemplative, and studied Harry. "To know that I am bound to one capable of such workings as have been done this night - that is a gift more gilt than blood and silver both."

Harry struggled to his feet, leaning against the cave wall for support. He felt strange. Weakened by the ritual, yet replenished by the deep well of Each-Uisge's power and Thistles' healing fruit. He had energy. He was unwounded. He was hale and hearty and yet stretched too thin, too far. His body would move as he demanded, but something deeper inside him cried out for rest.

"A word of warning, young mortal," said Each-Uisge. "I sense the clamour of your sources of power even as you draw strength from mine. You have only mastered one of them. The lesser ones are of no regard, but the ocean will drown you if you do not swim with care. Even the nascent strength of this thistle-elf may prove too much for you. Your power is not in equilibrium. With every step you unbalance yourself further."

"I'm feeling pretty unbalanced right now," confessed Harry. Pushing off from the wall, he found he was able to stand unassisted, but was dizzy enough that he couldn't be certain whether he was swaying or not. Thistles grabbed him by the shoulders, and then by the hands once he steadied.

"You know how to do this," she said. "Your power has grown too much, too fast, but I can hold you firm so that it doesn't burn you out. I am your power. I will not be wielded against you."

"I will anchor you in the oceans. The thistle-elf will root you to the ground. There is lightning in your blood. The three realms of earth and sea and sky are yours, if you have the will to master them."

"All I need is some time to adjust," said Harry. "Apotheosis takes a lot out of a fellow."

"Yes," said Each-Uisge. "I recall."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"It took me a couple of hours to fly here," said Harry. "I should go soon if I want to be back before sunrise."

"Are you well enough to fly?" asked Thistles. Harry shrugged.

"I can hold on. Buckbeak's the one who'll be doing the work. But how are you getting back - how did you get here to begin with?" he asked. Thistles gave him a sly look, the green of her sclera vivid against pupils dilated wide and dark.

"There's a lot of mugwort growing above our heads," she said, gesturing to the muggle car park on the other side of the cave roof. Harry looked at her in confusion and her grin widened. "Master your power, Harry," she said. "Everything I can do, you will be able to."

Harry made a note to investigate what mugwort had to do with travelling hundreds of miles in a night, but put it out of his mind for now.

Each-Uisge stepped across the cave, his footsteps making no noise against the rock. Harry twisted to face him, startled to see him come so close for the first time. He held out a hand in a surprisingly human gesture. Harry reached out automatically to return the handshake, but the water horse gripped his hand much further up than he was expected, clasping his wrist instead. Harry fumbled it a little, from unfamiliarity and surprise alike, but managed to return the gesture.

The man smiled, and it wasn't entirely unkind.

"For a man who tries to deny destiny, you are remarkably skilled at weaving the threads of fate. I wonder how much is deliberate? No matter. You have won my fealty. Summon me by name and my power by will. We are bound until death."

Each-Uisge rippled like the surface of the sea, and then a jet-black horse stood in front of Harry with a mane of kelp. He snorted, and shook, sending a shower of water droplets over Harry and Thistles. She closed her eyes in pleasure, holding her hand out to catch them, and something Harry didn't understand passed between the two creatures.

The water horse vanished into the cave, heading towards the spring at its heart. There was a splash, and then silence.


End file.
